Life Doesn't Work That Way
by Daphne22
Summary: Phoenix and Edgeworth deal with the repercussions of Lana Skye's trial while trying to trying to figure out what they really mean to each other. Set between 1-5 and JFA, spoilers for both. Slash. Miles Edgeworth/Phoenix Wright.
1. Chapter 1

_As one might guess, I don't own the characters I'm playing with. Oh well._

* * *

Phoenix Wright did not have a happy ending. What he did have was a giant pile of paperwork, no assistant, and a coffee machine that wasn't working right. Yes, trials were faster affairs than they used to be but somehow the amount of paperwork seemed the same. What time might have once been spent writing briefs for a judge's perusal before a case had now transformed into a meticulous record keeping of arguments and logic after the case, whose submission was demanded by the state.

It had been two months since he'd had a case and Phoenix was finally getting to the end of his backlog, pulling together the final pages of the whole mess with Von Karma, Edgeworth, and DL-6. After the trial had ended it had almost been a relief to go back and work through Will Powers' trial again on paper. Will was a genuinely kind, if somewhat bumbling, man and it made Phoenix smile to think of him.

Miles' case was another matter. Miles had been saved, true, both from the guilt he'd carried and from whatever sentence might have befallen him had he been found guilty, but he'd also learned the man he'd trusted as mentor and father-figure for years had killed his real father and would have gladly done the same to him. Phoenix felt a little ill every time he tried to wrap his mind around it.

Miles himself had disappeared for a month after the trial. Apparently, he was back in the prosecutors' office now but Phoenix had heard nothing from him in the time since.

Phoenix turned away from his computer and stared out the window at the hotel across the street. He took a sip of his now cold coffee and then, being reminded of the sludge the coffee machine was turning out these days, made a face and put it down.

What had he expected, following after Miles like he had? He'd written letters when they were younger and Miles had first disappeared. In a remarkable act of commitment for a young boy, he had kept the habit up for almost three years even though he had never recieved a response.

He'd written more letters in college, when Miles had resurfaced at the prosecutors' office. Miles never responded to those either, but Phoenix hadn't been surprised. At the time it was just something to do, some way of reaching out. He'd followed the man into the law after that, saved his life in court and... nothing.

Phoenix wasn't sure what he had expected but it wasn't this half-empty feeling of things being incomplete. It wasn't total silence from the other man. Something which had never been defined in his mind was _supposed_ to be happening and, at the moment, it wasn't.

Phoenix watched as a maid in one of the hotel rooms made up the bed and then shut the curtains to block out the afternoon sun. Then he turned back to his computer telling himself that he really ought to grow up and let the ideas of childhood drift away. Life didn't work that way. That's all there was to it.

There was a knock and the office door opened. Phoenix jumped slightly, caught in his reverie and not expecting anyone, and then got up to see who it was. A young girl stood there, about Maya's age, a bag slung across her shoulder and an enormous pair of pink glasses perched on her head.

"Mr. Wright?" she said. "My name's Ema Skye."

O O O

A body had been found in the trunk of Miles Edgeworth's car. He was not happy about this. Luckily, the evidence had panned out in a way that he was on no one's suspect list. Still, it meant that he was involved in a case in some way other than running it and he hated the feeling. Therefore, Miles did the only thing he could think of.

He made sure he was prosecuting the case.

But something was wrong. The evening before the trial Miles stood in his office, staring out his window at the Los Angeles skyline, a cup of tea cooling in his hand. He was not entirely sure that Lana Skye was guilty. Yes, she did confess to the crime but there was something not right about the whole situation. Things didn't add up quite correctly and there was a Von Karma-like feeling about the whole affair.

Still, he thought, sipping his tea, his job was to try to prove the defendant guilty, so that was exactly what he would do.

Perhaps a bigger problem was the opposing council.

Miles had taken a month off after Phoenix had successfully defended him. He had rented a place up the coast and spent his time walking around the rocky cliffs near San Francisco and Monterey, trying to make sense of all the things that had just happened.

In the end, though, he couldn't really. So he'd simply come home and tried to do what he done for the past four years, letting the routine of work and life he'd cultivated carry him. He didn't call Phoenix because calling people and going out for coffee and seeking out social ties was not something Miles did. Right now Miles was running on pure habit.

He really did feel like he owed the man something, though. He put his tea down and, collapsing into the chair behind his desk, glanced at his chess board, still set up in its angry tableau after all these months.

He wasn't angry at Phoenix anymore, far from it. Even that had been a short competitive burst. Still, the chess pieces sat unmoved, a constant reminder that Miles had met his match in court.

Certainly in terms of knowledge of the law and sheer persuasive power, Miles was the more skillful. But Phoenix was also passionate and deeply observant and those qualities made him an opponent to contend with.

Miles turned his attention back towards the papers on his desk, forcing his mind away from Phoenix and back to the argument he had been preparing. There was no reason his mind should keep wandering back to him. He sat, pen poised above a yellow legal pad.

Nothing sprang to mind. He frowned. He put the pen down.

It was just that he was connected to Phoenix now, somehow, and he wasn't used to that. Nor, for that matter, could he put his finger on what exactly that connection was. They had been childhood friends but to most rational people that would be a very limited connection, particularly when two people hadn't seen each other for almost fifteen years.

Although, Phoenix had written, sending letters through the courthouse when Miles left without a forwarding address. He'd hardly thought of the letters in their seven year pause but then there he was, more than twenty and a boy from half a lifetime ago was again sending messages through the courthouse again.

_"Dear Prosecutor Edgeworth. Wow, that looks funny to write. I guess it's just going to have to be Miles from here on out, then... How are you..."_

Miles shut his eyes, as if that first letter from four years ago was burned into his eyelids, remembering distinctly the childish prose. Even now, Phoenix had stood up for him and Phoenix believed in him effortlessly, but Miles couldn't begin to say why. Nor could he say, for that matter, what Miles role in all of it was supposed to be.

Miles inhaled deeply. The whole thing was just foolish. Life didn't work that way, whatever that way might be, and he couldn't live in some other man's daydream, even if the other man thought he was involved in it.

He stood up and began packing his briefcase. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would get up, and he would go to court. He got his coat and wrapped a long scarf around his neck. When he would see Phoenix and he would greet him as a colleague and an opponent. Miles Edgeworth shut off the light and closed the office door.

And then he would prove Lana Skye guilty.


	2. Chapter 2

"Jesus," Phoenix breathed. "Look at all the reporters." He backed away from the courthouse door like it was on fire and glanced at Miles, the only other member of their party still there. Only moments before, Ema and Lana had left for the detention center with a police escort and Gumshoe had run back to the police department.

And just like that, it had become just the two of them and the trial was over.

Well, it was only the two of them in a very limited way, Miles mentally amended. The usual courthouse bustle continued behind them and there was an army of press waiting in front of the door.

"We did just destroy the Chief of Police, Wright," he said cooly.

"Well, what do we do now?" Phoenix asked, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing slightly in familiar gesture that distinctly indicated his embarrassment. "I've never dealt with a mob like that before, even with the whole Steel Samurai thing."

Miles peered out the window near the door. A crowd of microphones, cameras, and recording devices were currently trained on Angel "The Cough Up Queen" Starr. However, he was sure that as soon as the prosecution and the defense left the courthouse, all attention would be on them.

Miles suddenly felt very tired. He had abandoned his assumed role of prosecuting the defendant in attempt to prosecute the truly guilty, very nearly abandoned his entire career, and was, quite frankly, ready to abandon the whole ordeal for the day.

"If you'd like, Wright, I can give you a ride."

Phoenix looked at him a bit quizzically.

"If we leave through the courthouse parking lot, we can avoid the press altogether."

"I get it." Phoenix nodded. "If you could, that'd be great."

"Follow me."

They walked to the parking lot, neither man saying much, both too worn to notice the quiet.

"God," Phoenix was the first to break the silence, collapsing into the passenger's seat. "I could use a drink." He turned to Miles as the other man seated himself in the drivers side. "Any chance our great escape could include a beer?"

The request was phrased in a way that Miles couldn't say no without also denying Phoenix. Before he could stop himself he heard himself say, "Did you have someplace in mind?"

"There's a bar Larry and I go to, on Elm. They've got a good beer selection and it should be pretty quiet on a weeknight. It's not far. I can give you directions."

"Alright."

As he drove Miles felt a familiar tightness rise in his chest. He'd just committed himself an hour of conversation, perhaps more. For most people it might not have even merited a thought but all Miles could do was to wonder what on Earth they had to say to each other that could fill up the space of an entire drink. Miles was no good at relaxed chatter, he never knew what to say. Silently he wondered if he ought to be making conversation with the man next to him and cursed himself for agreeing to top off what was an exhausting day with what was sure to be an awkward evening.

Phoenix, on the other hand, was oblivious to the argument going on inside the mind of the man driving. He was too busy thinking about the case as the events of the past three days whirled around his head. He stared out the window, pausing only to tell Miles to take a right or a left down one street or another.

He had no doubt they'd done the right thing, but now the enormity of what they'd accomplished was beginning to weigh on him. He felt elated but dizzy at the same time. It reminded him of something not unlike the feeling he would get after being in a play in college. It was as if he'd been walking on a tightrope and somehow made it to the other side, only now allowing the feelings of fear and triumph to sink in, in equal measures.

The bar they arrived at was a small and quiet affair, the sort prized by those who valued beer and company over rowdiness. The bar and tables were made of worn but polished wood and a list of beers written in chalk hung behind the bar, smudged with the evidence of frequent additions and subtractions. The room was less than half full with only a few small groups clustered around tables, a couple of friends chatting idly at the bar, and one young man who sat alone, nursing a glass of black-colored stout while he buried his head in some book laid out in front of him.

They found a table in the corner and Phoenix draped his coat and suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs.

"Hey, Edgeworth, what can I get you?" He asked. "My treat. They just serve beer and wine here."

"A decent Pinot Noir would be nice." Miles said, instinctively upon hearing the word 'wine.' "Or if they don't have a decent Pinot, than a glass of Chianti." He reminded himself who was fetching his drink and almost correct himself by just saying, 'something red and dry' but to his surprise Phoenix simply nodded and headed over to the bar.

A young woman, barely more than a girl, stood behind the bar. She wore a black tank top and her wild curly brown hair was pulled back from her elfin face into a pony-tail that bloomed behind her head. He noticed that she smiled when Phoenix approached the bar and watched as she chatted with him and laughed as she poured the wine. Miles thought for a moment that she was laughing at him and his choice of drink, but the brief paranoia passed as quickly as it came. The woman was obviously familiar with Phoenix and that was the source of her kindness and humor. Miles felt a momentary stab of jealousy towards the other man. Phoenix was not the most charismatic person he'd ever met but people genuinely warmed to him as they got to know him and then stuck close thereafter.

Phoenix returned to the table with a glass of red wine in one hand and a tall thin glass of amber beer in the other.

"It's a 2011 Pinot from Argentina. I don't know that much about wine but Katie, the bartender, said it was really good. She also said that normally she'd hate herself for giving you a South American Pinot when we live right here in California but that it's too good not to try."

Miles gave a breathy snort and lifted an eyebrow as if to say, "well, we'll see about that." He picked up his glass noting the red liquid was a dark ruby where the light hit it. He swirled the wine a few times, inhaled deeply, his nose half in the glass, and finally sipped gently.

It was dry and heavy but the winemaker hadn't killed the delicate grape with oak. Dark notes of fruit bit through the smokey taste of the wood and filled his pallette pleasantly. It really was good. Very good, in fact.

"This is excellent, Wright."

"Well then," said Phoenix raising his own glass. "A toast."

"To what?"

"Well, as you so eloquently put it, we did just destroy the Chief of Police."

"And you think we should be toasting to that." It was a flat statement of disapproval, rather than a question.

"Shouldn't we?" Phoenix was confused. The good guys had just won, after all. Why shouldn't they celebrate?

"It all depends," Miles leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the base of his wine glass, "on how whomever is in charge feels about it."

"What do you mean by that?" Phoenix's eyebrows pressed together in concentration.

"Well, if whoever is in charge- the commissioner, the mayor's office, city council, take your pick- thinks running a clean police department is for the best, well, good for us. If not," Miles shrugged and took a sip of wine. "A scandal of this size can be difficult for a city to absorb. It could make some people look very bad." He sipped his wine again and set the glass back on the table. "Although, I suppose it's really only me who has to be worried. You're in private practice. It would be political suicide to destroy your career too much. I, on the other hand, work for the state, so they can do just about any damned fool thing they want to me and my career."

Phoenix was quiet for a minute, taking this in.

"That's why you were threatening to resign earlier, isn't it." He finally said.

Miles paused for a moment and then nodded. "Who knows what Monday may bring, Wright."

Phoenix took a long pull on his own beer, his own celebratory mood slipping away under the weight of Miles' harsh rationality. "So then why don't you quit? Why not go into private practice?"

Miles gave him a sideways look but Phoenix pressed the point. "I think you'd be good at it. You could still make a great defense attorney if you wanted to."

Miles sat up and stiffly adjusted his vest. "I'm a prosecutor, Wright. And the fact is, I'm very good at it."

Phoenix nodded, not arguing with the statement and went back to paying attention to his beer. Inwardly, he felt a slight disappointment sink into his chest, realizing the idiocy of what he'd just asked. Things had felt so relaxed, they'd been so at ease with each other. Maybe it had just been after effects of Lana's little stunt with the two halves of the evidence list but for the last half an hour Miles had let just the slightest bit of his guard down. And then Phoenix had to go and say something dumb like that and mess it up.

Miles said something, calling Phoenix back to the present.

"What was that?"

"I asked what you were drinking."

"Oh, um, it's just an IPA." The prosecutor seemed a bit confused. "An India Pale Ale." Phoenix explained. "Care to try?" He tilted the tall glass in Miles direction.

"Er, no thank you. I'm not very fond of beer."

"Really? Then you probably just haven't found the right beer."

Miles started to protest but apparently changed his mind before the words even left his lips. "No, I suppose, I haven't."

He's trying to put me at ease, Phoenix realized. The idea was so delightfully backwards, Phoenix fought to hold back a laugh. Miles was the shy one, the one who hated conversation, and the one who was charmingly awkward outside of professional circumstances and here he was changing the subject after Phoenix had been the one to say the horribly wrong thing.

"Here." Phoenix pushed the glass towards the other man. "It's really hoppy and has a of sort spice to it."

Miles picked up the glass, sniffing it. "Hoppy?"

"Made with a lot of hops." Phoenix faked astonishment. "Don't tell me I know something that the great Miles Edgeworth doesn't."

Miles grunted lightly in acknowledgment and sipped the beer before handing it back to Phoenix.

"Not bad," he admitted. "Although, I don't know if I'd make a habit of it."

"Well, there's time, yet," said Phoenix smiling.

Miles gazed at the man across from him. After everything they'd done in the past three days, it was an odd sort of denouement sitting here in a bar, simply sharing drinks. His moment of panic in the car had drifted away as his fears of awkward silence had proved unfounded. Even the threat of repercussions and a hungry news media seemed oddly distant from him and the table he shared with the other lawyer.

"Yes," he agreed. "There's time."

* * *

_A note about the wine and beer: Edgeworth isn't just being snobby, he really does know a little something about wine. When drinking a wine for the first time one should note the color (mostly, just because it's pretty), aerate it (swirl it, it exposes the tannins to oxygen and brings out the flavor), smell it (all the intricacies of taste are in the nose- this is why people sniff wine), and at the very last taste it. And Phoenix knows something about beer. Take that as you will._

_Plot to move along shortly, I swear._

_Thank you to Serena-chan, Capegio, and Cheea5 for taking the time to review. This author does appreciate it!_


	3. Chapter 3

It was already dark when Miles returned to his apartment. Light from a street-lamp glanced through a crack in the living room curtains and cast a single florescent stripe across the livingroom and into the entryway. The rooms of the apartment seemed all the more empty and quiet for that one bit of light and Miles found himself wishing ever so slightly that he was still in the warmly-lit bar and in Phoenix's company.

He turned the lights on as he moved through the apartment, trying to drive out the empty feeling of the living-space. He put the kettle on for a cup of tea, then he went into his office and began unpacking his briefcase. As he did so, a piece of paper, smaller than the other documents, slipped out of a file and fluttered to the floor. His half of the evidence list.

A terrible anger towards the document on the floor welled up inside of him. That small piece of paper was the source of all the worst accusations of his career. For a moment, he flirted with the idea of crumpling it up and letting it get buried in the bottom of the trash. Sense won out over anger, however, and instead he placed it back in its file and made a mental note to file it as soon as he got to work.

The list meant more than it had before, he reminded himself. Miles had been officially talked out of resigning with that stupid list. He slammed his briefcase shut, the loud, dull clapping noise giving vent to his frustration. A gesture like that didn't mean he shouldn't resign. It wasn't just Von Karma who had manipulated the justice system to his own ends. Lana's case had proved that there were others out there more than happy to do the same. Who was to say that Miles couldn't become one of them or hadn't acted as one of them already?

The piercing noise of the boiling kettle cut through his thoughts and the young prosecutor ordered his mind to calm down. Operating almost automatically, he poured himself a cup of tea, changed out of his suit into a pair of comfortable pajamas, and settled into his favorite chair with the tea and his current book, a volume on deviance theory. He began to read.

_It is important to note that Binet's IQ test was never meant to actually measure intelligence, but simply to identify those children who were in need of special education..._

What would happen on Monday? The thought crashed through his brain uninvited and he looked up from the text. He had no notions of what the feelings of the mayor's office or the county commissioner's might be as far as the Gant scandal was concerned. He had said as much to Phoenix and it was certainly true. He pushed the thoughts out of his head and forced himself back into the book.

_... measure intelligence but simply to identify those children who were in need of special education. Binet himself noted his fears that the test..._

Frankly, he was scared. Miles had been tossed around by the system before and it was more than unpleasant. Gant himself had made him into an unknowing accomplice just days ago. He shuddered at the thought of finding himself under some unknown thumb and went back to the text.

_...Binet's IQ test was never meant to actually measure intelligence, but simply to identify those children who were in need of special education. Binet himself..._

What was even more frightening, however, was the notion that under the right circumstances, Miles might be willing to along with it. After all, Miles had been Von Karma's most ardent disciple. He'd told himself it was because he hated criminals, hated those who would do harm to others but hadn't there been more than a little hubris involved? Hadn't he enjoyed the fact that he was good at what he did, that he always "won?" He'd even been crowned "King of Prosecutors..." He turned back to the page, disliking immensely where this train of thought was taking him.

_It is important to note that Binet's IQ test was never meant..._

Miles put the book down. It was no good. He'd read the same paragraph four times in a row now. He sipped his tea and leaning back, he shut his eyes and let his mind wander.

It had been good fighting with Phoenix in court. It had felt good trading off attacks and covering one another when the need arose. It had felt almost as good just to have someone to talk about it with afterwards. He pictured Phoenix's blue eyes smiling at him over a beer and a small smile touched his lips.

Miles opened his eyes. This was another problem, he had suddenly realized. Miles Edgeworth was... lonely. If he had to put a word to it that was it. He was lonely.

Sighing to himself, the pajamaed prosecutor got up and placed his tea cup in the sink to be washed in the morning. His fears and dreads were piling up on him and he didn't have the strength to fight back anymore for the night.

He felt like more of a little boy than a man as he padded off to bed, shutting off the lights he'd filled the apartment with as he went. He crawled under the sheets and pulling the blankets almost over his head, hid and waited for sleep to take him.

O O O

The world seemed much better in the light of day and Miles Edgeworth felt particularly light and relieved after a good night's sleep. He was standing over the stove, ready to enjoy a relaxed Saturday, an omelette bubbling in front of him when, at ten o'clock that morning, the phone rang . The caller ID announced it was Phoenix.

"Hello?"

"Have you seen the paper today, Edgeworth?" The man on the other end sounded upset.

"I'm well, Wright, thank you for asking. And yourself?" Miles had no intention of losing his hard won good mood to another man's frenzy.

"I'll take that as a no, then."

"No."

"Then you need to take a look at the LA Times. As in now."

Miles sighed and glanced ruefully at his omelette. He decided his breakfast was important enough not to ruin it for whatever Phoenix was babbling about.

"One moment. The paper's on my counter. I just have to finish with this omelette first."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. "You're... making an omelette?" The voice sounded a bit lost.

"Some of us did take the time to learn to cook. And if you had any idea how difficult it is to do a decent half fold while cradling a phone on your shoulder you might be appropriately impressed."

"Hmm." Phoenix made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

"Really, I don't see what it is you're so worked up over. You saw the reporters. You knew there would be press." Plating the neatly folded work of egg and cheese, Miles set his breakfast on the table and then went to the counter to take the paper out of its plastic wrapper.

"Just look at it, Edgeworth."

"Fine, fine." Over reacting little... Miles thought, but the thought was cut short. He could see their pictures on the front page. He sat down at the table. "Oh my."

The headline read: CHIEF OF POLICE ARRESTED FOR MURDER and featured a picture of Damon Gant being lead out of the courthouse. But below that story were smaller pictures of Miles and Phoenix arguing in court, accompanying an article titled, "PROSECUTION AND DEFENSE BOTH ATTACK CRIMINAL COP." A smaller byline asked the question, "Collaboration Between Council?"

"You see it then." Phoenix said, far away on the other end of the phone.

"Yes."

"Heh. Turn to the B section, page two. It gets worse."

Miles did as he was told and was again confronted with pictures of himself and Phoenix. This time below the photos of them as adults was a copy of their fourth grade class picture. The young Phoenix stood next to the young Miles, grinning, his arm around his friend's shoulder. It was human interest piece titled, "LEGAL EAGLES WERE CHILDHOOD PALS."

"This is bad, Wright."

"Didn't I tell you that?"

"If they accuse us of premeditated collaboration between opposing council, the whole thing could be declared a mistrial."

"Yes."

"We could even be disbarred."

"We could what?!" Unmitigated panic came from the other end of the phone. Had Phoenix really thought about the trial without considering the personal implications of the news articles?

"Wright, calm down."

"I'm calm. I'm calm." Miles heard exaggerated inhales and exhales coming from the other man. "Okay, so what do we do now?"

"Well, obviously we're going to have to figure out what we tell them." Miles took a sip of tea and felt his mind slip into its familiar analytic framework. "Don't answer any phone calls. They're going to try and contact you and me both for statements. We'll have to talk to them eventually but it would be best if we got our story straight first."

"Get our story straight?"

"They're press. They're worse than you are, Wright. They'll pick anything apart to make it fit their story. If either one of us says something that sounds odd with the other's statement, it will be very easy to turn it into another scandal."

"I see." There was a silence on the other end. Miles could almost swear he heard gears turning. "We should meet then. And probably soon."

"Come over to my place," Miles heard himself say. "We can talk about it here."

"Won't that look worse, me sneaking off to your apartment?"

"They won't be stalking you." Exasperation was becoming evident in Miles voice. "Besides, you don't have a car, so it's not as if you'll be parked out front."

"Okay, okay. Give me your address and I'll be by in half an hour."

Miles gave Phoenix his address and hung up the phone. He sat at the kitchen table, largely motionless for a few moments, wondering how his calm morning had suddenly turned into such a frenzy. He sighed and picked at his omelette.

And, he thought to himself, it's only going to get worse when the spiky haired idiot arrives.


	4. Chapter 4

The front door opened to reveal an immaculately kempt Miles Edgeworth in khakis in an untucked button down shirt and behind him, a similarly immaculately kept apartment. From the other man's perspective, the open door revealed was a spiky haired young lawyer, clad in a worn t-shirt that said "Ivy U" and jeans, standing in the hallway with a smile that split his face in two.

"What are you grinning about, Wright?"

"Ah... nothing." Phoenix blushed slightly in a way that indicated that it certainly was something.

"Hm." Miles simply turned on his heel and walked towards the kitchen. Phoenix followed dutifully, making mental notes about Miles' taste in decor, particularly his love for pinks, reds, and, apparently, things made of glass. It was a little like walking into his grandmother's house, Phoenix thought. If, he amended, his grandmother had been a metrosexual with unimpeachably stylish taste.

The paper on the table brought Phoenix's thoughts full circle and reinforced the up turn of his lips. "Actually," Phoenix said, "Channel 9 News wants to interview me on Sunday."

"Oh?" And what of it? Miles' tone seemed to suggest. Phoenix sat at the table while Miles went to pick up the kettle. "Tea?" Phoenix shook his head.

"Ellen Ning, the anchor." Phoenix leaned back in the kitchen chair, as if he were a bit proud. "In a special segment."

"Didn't I tell you not to answer your phone?" Miles put the kettle down with a bit more force than necessary and swiftly picked up his cup.

"There's such a thing as voicemail, Edgeworth." Phoenix retorted.

Miles scowled and sat down adjacent to Phoenix. He stirred his tea for a moment, as if the cup had personally insulted him and for a moment Phoenix thought the swirling liquid might start spilling over the sides of the shallow delicate cup.

"Nevermind." Miles finally said, placing the teaspoon on the saucer and gesturing towards the paper. "Before you tell them anything, we need to figure what we're going to say."

"Yeah..." Phoenix sighed. "Where do we start?"

"Well," Phoenix noticed Mile's jaw set. He stared at the paper as if doing so might light it on fire. "We start with how I ended up prosecuting against a man whom I've known since grade school and why I appeared to agree with him in court. Oh, and then we can go on to how that man happens to be the same defense attorney who cleared me of a murder charge two months ago. That sounds about right."

Earlier that morning, Phoenix himself had nearly had a panic attack when he'd seen the paper. Once he'd called Miles, however, he'd felt much more secure. He'd been sure that if they just spoke, they could make sense of the whole mess. The voicemail message from the news show had been flattering and had piled excitement on to his relief. He was going to get his fifteen minutes of fame and recognition and he had been sure that once he talked to Miles it was going to be okay.

Those thoughts fled out of his mind now. The man next to him at the table was anything but okay.

"Miles," Phoenix leaned over and laid a gentle hand on the other man's forearm. "We did the right thing. You know that right?"

Stillness descended over the kitchen and for the briefest of moments neither man moved a centimeter nor hardly even breathed. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone and Miles was nodding slowly and shifting his arm away from Phoenix.

"Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, I'm a bit on edge these days."

"Well, for what it's _worth_, it's in your name." Phoenix replied lightly.

Miles sipped his tea and glared at the other man levelly over the cup. "I forbid you to ever make a joke that trite in my presence again."

"Oh, it wasn't that bad."

"Wright, the only thing faultier than your logic is your sense of humor."

"Probably." Phoenix smiled. If Miles still felt like making jabs at him, he couldn't be doing too badly. "Still, let's see what our combined logic can figure out about this mess."

O O O

Two hours later, Phoenix Wright was still in Miles Edgeworth's apartment. Not only that, he was relaxed comfortably on the man's couch, drinking a cup of coffee and actually laughing.

"And that's when Larry admitted he was the one who put shoe polish in her coffee!"

A small smile ghosted across Miles' lips. He was equally relaxed, or as near as he might come to being, in his easy chair, his own hands holding a cup of coffee. "What a horrible boy he was."

"But you have to admit, she kind of deserved it."

"I don't think I consider that sort of punishment appropriate for anyone. I'm no Beccarian but you can't randomly select a punishment you think fits the crime. It's one of the things that separates law from revenge." Miles noticed a blank look on Phoenix's face. "Really, you did go to law school, didn't you?"

Phoenix blushed. "Yes, I did. And I even passed the bar, in case you forgot. I just have no idea what Beccarian means."

"Cesare Beccaria?" Phoenix shrugged. "He wrote _On Crimes and Punishments_?" Phoenix shook his head. "Late 18th century Italian humanist philosopher?"

"Nope. No idea."

Miles sighed. "Don't tell me I'm going to have to start lending you books now. Really, Wright. You need to start having some idea of the history of what you practice."

"I have a hard enough time getting my head around what I do in the present."

Miles made a noncommittal noise and sipped his coffee. "I find that all too easy to believe."

Somehow, it seemed that with the two of them alone conversation came too easily to be dismissed and too comfortably to not be enjoyed. The evening before and the present moments in the living room were a surprise to both men; surprising to Phoenix that Miles wasn't pushing him away and surprising to Miles that he didn't really want to do just that.

They'd finished talking about their response to the press almost an hour before and had drifted into other topics. Miles had suggested coffee and somehow life had drifted into a lazy weekend afternoon. Just like being friends, Phoenix thought. And all it took was two murder trials and a scandal to get us here.

A particularly tinny version of the Steel Samurai theme suddenly filled the living room.

"My phone..." Phoenix explained, digging in his pocket.

"Why does your phone play the Steel Samurai theme?" Miles asked.

"It's the news show again." He looked over at Miles. "Should I answer it?"

"It's up to you. We have to talk to the press at some point or it'll look like we're hiding."

Phoenix nodded and answered the phone. "Hello? Yes, Phoenix Wright speaking. Yes, I got your message. I'd be happy to come in for an interview... This afternoon at four o'clock? Yes, I'll be there. Can you give me the address?" He looked at Miles and made a gesture that said, "I need something to write with and on." Miles stepped out of the room and quickly returned with a small note pad and a pen. "Uh-huh, uh-huh." Phoenix began jotting down rapidly. "Right. Okay. I'll see you then. Okay. Oh, wait! Should I ask for anyone when I get there? Okay. Thanks. Alright, bye."

"Well then," said Miles smoothly. "That sounds like that, then."

"Yeah." Phoenix leaned back his brow suddenly furrowed in concentration. "I really hope I don't screw this up. Being interviewed on TV sounds kind of scary now that I think about it."

"You'll do fine."

The man on the couch nodded absently. "Anyway, I should probably go. I need to run back to my place and get ready before I got to the TV station. And I have a couple of other things I needed to get done today, too."

"That's probably a good idea."

Phoenix stood up and the two men walk towards the door. Suddenly unsure of what was appropriate, he held out a hand. Miles shook it briefly. "Thanks for everything."

"Well, we needed to talk."

"Yeah but I mean, the coffee and just hanging out. All of that, too."

"I'll... see you soon, Wright." Miles finally said. He opened the door and Phoenix stepped through it but then suddenly turned, apparently having remembered something.

"Wait, Edgeworth. How did you know that was the Steel Samurai theme?"

"Goodbye, Wright." And Miles shut the door.

O O O

The next evening Miles was in the middle of some paperwork and a half eaten roasted vegetable sandwich when he remembered that Phoenix was supposed to appear on TV. Leaving the papers on his desk and taking the plate with the sandwich with him, he drifted into the living room and turned on the TV.

Phoenix's image appeared on the screen. He sat in a chair, dressed in a familiar blue suit, across from a middle-aged woman with a soft but earnest demeanor, the anchor, Ellen Ning.

"Well," Phoenix was saying, "as far as that goes, in smaller towns it's not so uncommon is it? Lots of people know each other as children and then meet again professionally."

"But in a city the size of Los Angeles..." Ning cut in.

"It's an interesting coincidence. I mean, it's interesting but there's nothing odd about it." Miles had to give Phoenix credit. He appeared slightly nervous but he wasn't giving the woman control of the entire interview.

"And would you consider Miles Edgeworth your friend now?"

"Of course." Miles noticed Phoenix didn't even pause. "Its funny the way those childhood friendships stick to you. But I don't think that it affects us professionally. If anything, we're probably more vicious to one another in court because we know it's not personal."

Miles harrumphed to himself. Not personal indeed. Their first trials together were anything but impersonal and as driven by personal anger, frustration, and confusion as any other motivation.

"So do you talk to each other about your cases?" The woman prodded, gesturing with her pen. "Do you discuss them outside of work?"

"You mean, do we go out, have a beer and talk about court that day? Never." Miles noticed the way Phoenix rephrased the question and silently approved of the tactic. "If we run across each other professionally, outside of court, we might discuss things, but I don't think we say things to each other, other than what any other prosecutor and defense attorney might discuss."

"Would you consider that collaboration?" Ning pressed.

There it was, the major question they had to dodge. Miles held his breathe slightly, waiting to see what Phoenix would say.

"No. Not at all. Collaboration means that the two sides must come to an agreement on how the trial will be run inside the court room. That the interests of the prosecution and the defense eventually aligned in this case is merely an indication of how sordid the whole situation was."

Oh god. That idiot was almost quoting verbatim what Miles had said the day before. Miles silently urged the interviewer to go on to another topic before it began to look like Phoenix had a prosecutor friend for a speech writer.

"I see. Now, about Damon Gant. Did you have any idea that things went as far as they did?"

"Honestly?" Here Phoenix laughed. It was that jovial sort of laugh that both endeared him to some people and made others think he was a bit foolish. Honest, that's what it was, Miles thought. It was a totally honest laugh. He felt himself relax a bit. No one could accuse a man with that laugh of duplicity. They wouldn't think he had it in himself.

"I had no idea." Phoenix continued. "At the top of the case, all I knew was that something wasn't right and after a day or so it became pretty clear that Gant was at the middle of it. But murder? Cover-up? Five days ago, I never would have guessed."

Miles watched the rest of the interview and switched off the TV. All that remained was to see what Monday would bring.

* * *

_Thank you to __Serena-chan1 (you are so delightfully prompt in your reviews), -k.c, momijikk, (one for every chapter, wow, thanks!), shadowcat15, and of course, the ever charming Anonymous. Your thoughts and comments are very much appreciated. (Also, the nice things you say make me blush!) I hope everyone who enjoys (or doesn't) this story will be kind enough to drop me a note as it progresses._

_A quick author's note: Dispite being the wild product of my own slashy imagination, the events of this story are actually carefully wedged into a space in the canon plot, so timing means a great deal. I imagine dear Edgeworth was a bit of a mess at this point, as well as a few other pertinent things._


	5. Chapter 5

Phoenix woke up late on Monday morning, his mind still creaking from an exhausting weekend. Not expecting any clients and just another giant pile of paperwork, he showered and shaved lethargically before parking himself at his kitchen table in front of a bowl of cold cereal, a large cup of coffee, and the morning paper.

The weekend had come and gone and Saturday's front page news had now been relegated to the front page of the regional news section of the paper. Gant's official resignation and Lana's arraignment on charges of conspiracy were still important enough to warrant photographs but no longer exciting enough to push headlines of presidential politics and foreign affairs to the bottom of the page.

He read the article spread across the front page of the regional news with the same lazy pace that had characterized the rest of his morning, despite the fact that both he and Miles were quoted in it.

_"Miles Edgeworth, son of Defense Attorney Gregory Edgeworth, the protegee of the recently convicted Manfred von Karma, and oft labeled "Demon Prosecutor" had this to say..." _

Phoenix stopped reading, not really caring what Miles had said, so much as he did the lengthy description following his name. He felt as if ice cold water were being poured over his chest. With a blunt instinct he knew that string of words would be particularly stinging to Miles, even if he could not pin point every psychological cause.

There was a sort of force that operated in Phoenix when it came to Miles Edgeworth. It had caused him to admire him intensely when he was a child and then to write to him for three years with a near fanatic dedication. As a young man it had caused him to throw his life in an entirely different direction the moment he encountered Miles' picture and a few telling words in the newspaper. It had given him an unshakable faith in Miles and had driven him to defend the other man in the face of his own confessions and protests. Right now that force was directing Phoenix to go straight to the prosecutors' offices and see if Miles Edgeworth was alright.

Like he always had, Phoenix obeyed this force without question or second thought, an empty cereal bowl and a half drunk cup of coffee all but rattling in his wake.

O O O

Phoenix Wright had been Miles Edgeworth's first kiss.

Sort of.

They had been boys then, young, not much more than ten. They had been wrestling in the park, even if they weren't particularly tough or inclined to fight. It was just a sort child's play. They had been playing with action figures and the fighting of the pieces of plastic had somehow devolved into throwing of chunks of grass which had in turn turned more violent until they were laughing and throwing each other on the ground. The had rolled down a hill and Phoenix had landed on top of Miles, still laughing.

Suddenly the boys had become quiet, with some pre-adolescent awareness that this moment might be different from the ones that preceded it. Then, with the strange seriousness of boyhood, Phoenix had leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Miles had flinched in surprise and Phoenix had immediately moved away.

The boys had sat silently for a minute pulling at the grass and letting it fly away in the air.

"I really like you, Miles." Phoenix had finally said. "You're like the best friend I've ever had."

Miles had been unsure of what to say to this and so instead he taken his friends hand and smiled at him quietly. Phoenix had smiled back, a bigger, goofier smile.

They had stayed holding hands when they walked back up the hill to pick up their toys. And after everything had been gathered and placed in brightly colored backpacks, Phoenix had taken his hand again and hand in hand they'd left the park.

Miles remembered all of this as he stared out of his office window, tea in his hands, seated behind his desk, facing away from his office. He sat almost completely still as he mused.

They had been old enough to know that two boys holding hands might be considered odd. At least, Miles had known. Phoenix was so enthusiastic about things at times, Miles wasn't sure if he bothered to stop and think.

That day had also been the first day Miles had begun to suspect that perhaps he wasn't entirely like the other boys and, while his ten year old mind had not been exactly able to express it as such, it was the beginning of the realization that kissing girls and fawning over breasts was not exactly in his future.

"Edgeworth? Are you alright?"

Miles all but jumped several feet in the air, his stillness suddenly broken, his heart pounding in surprise, and came face to face with Phoenix Wright..

"Christ, Wright. When did you learn to sneak up on people like that?"

Gazing over the skyline and wandering in thoughts of childhood and other things, he hadn't even heard the other man walk into his office, his private place of work, his sanctuary... Suddenly Miles stopped being surprised and was very irritated at the intrusion.

"How did get in here?" He said crossly.

"Your secretary told me to go on in." Phoenix shrugged. "You didn't say anything when I knocked, so I just walked in."

"Ah. Well." Miles wished he had something more substantial to say but his annoyance prevented him anything from coming to mind.

"What were you thinking about just now?" Phoenix sat in one of the chairs in front of Miles' desk uninvited and the prosecutor detected a note of concern in his voice.

"I... well... nothing really," Miles finished lamely. Just about you at ten years old and the early stirrings of homosexuality, he added in his head, sarcastically. "Why are you here?" He asked bluntly, shifting the focus of the conversation before Phoenix could ask again.

"I saw the paper this morning and..." Phoenix trailed off and Miles noticed he'd begun fidgeting with his tie. "...just wanted to see how you were," he finished lamely.

"I'm fine." Miles answered quickly and automatically. "Thank you for your concern but it is entirely unwarranted."

"Well, if you're sure..." Phoenix spoke hesitantly.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the office as Phoenix made no move to leave and Miles offered nothing to propel the conversation. The fact was Miles had been doing his damnedest to not think of the description in the newspaper. Son of a defense attorney, protegee of the man who killed him, known to everyone around him as a demon.

Trying not to think about it was how he'd ended up thinking about that childhood memory in the first place. He'd forced his mind away from the paper and for some reason started about thinking about Phoenix and then that memory had come up and now here Phoenix was in front of him...

Miles sighed. This was a very complicated morning.

"Excuse me, Mr. Edgeworth?" A young mousy looking woman poked her head through the office door. "There's a Patricia Reiner here to see you. She says she's from the State Bar Association."

"Go ahead and send her in."

The secretary nodded and opened the door, turning to speak to someone else. "This way, Ms. Reiner."

A middle aged woman in a black suit and heels strode into the room, holding out her hand in introduction before she'd reached half-way across the room.

"Hello, Patricia Reiner." Clearly she expected Miles to rise and meet her. Instead Miles stood at his desk, forcing her to awkwardly finish walking across the room. He shook her hand across the desk.

"Miles Edgeworth." He gestured to Phoenix. "My colleague, Phoenix Wright."

"Hello." Phoenix stood and shook her hand.

"Pleasure."

Miles gestured to an empty chair next to Phoenix. "Please have a seat."

"Mr. Wright, it's a fortunate surprise to see you here," Reiner spoke settling herself in to the seat. "although I don't know if I can say it is a happy one."

Miles noticed Phoenix bite his lip at this statement, a sign Miles knew by now that the man was not entirely sure how to respond.

"Did my assistant offer you any coffee or water Ms. Reiner?"

"No, she didn't."

"Ah." Miles said simply, not offering her any himself. He noticed her shift slightly in her chair. Good, he thought, be uncomfortable, showing up like this. "Now, please tell me, what can I do for you and why was it fortunate to see Mr. Wright here, as well?"

"Well," she began. "As you can guess, I'm here about the Skye trial."

"A rather messy, affair," Miles said smoothly. "I believe Ms. Skye goes to court for sentencing later this week. For conspiracy, of course, not murder."

"Awful, the whole thing is just awful." She shook her head as she spoke. "Still, if I may be blunt Mr. Edgeworth, Mr. Wright, it's not Ms. Skye's behavior I'm here to discuss."

"We haven't done anything wrong." Phoenix protested.

"I'm afraid wrong isn't the word I would use, Mr. Wright." Reiner turned her attention to the man sitting next to her. "Legal is the term that concerns us at the moment."

"What Mr. Wright means," Miles said calmly, "is that we are well aware of the allegations against us. Allegations, which as far as I am aware, are not formal and thus far have only been found in the cheap newsprint of the daily paper."

The woman in the black suit regarded him for a moment before speaking. "Mr. Edgeworth," she turned to Phoenix, "Mr. Wright," she turned back to Miles, "I want to make it clear that I am in no way attacking you. I simply came to inform you that the Bar has ordered that your conduct in this case be placed under review."

"What?" Phoenix addressed the woman next to him. "What do you mean review?"

"Mr. Wright," sugar could have dripped out of her lips, so sweet was her tone. "The Bar will start by reading your reports and going over the transcript of the trial. If anything seems amiss, we'll proceed from there. It's not such a big thing."

"Well then," Miles, smiled back pleasantly, a smile much like one he sometimes used in court, one which attacked rather than indicating happiness. "If I may, Ms. Reiner, thank you for taking the time to come and speak to us. It is, of course, always a pleasure to be reminded that the state bar takes such an active interest. I do hope you didn't have to travel far to meet with us." Reiner opened her mouth to speak but Miles gave her the chance to say nothing. "I'm sure when Wright and I hand in our reports at the end of the week everything will prove satisfactory."

Miles rose, walked to the other side of the desk and shook her hand again. "Thank you again for coming, Ms. Reiner, it was a pleasure to meet with you."

"Mr. Edgeworth."

Phoenix shook her hand.

"Ms. Reiner."

"Mr. Wright."

"I must tell you," Miles said pleasantly, escorting her to the door, "I was looking at the panels available for CLE credits at this years' Bar convention and I am quite impressed by the variety. Last year there was hardly anything of interest to the common criminal prosecutor but this year I find the schedule quite full."

"Well, I do believe the current president felt there was a bit of a gap there." She was thoroughly off kilter now as she had somehow been ushered through the door and was now standing on the other side of the threshold facing Miles. "If I may ask you gentlemen one more thing."

"Of course." Miles smiled again, the same wry, predatory smile.

"What was it you were discussing when I came in? I hope I didn't break up anything urgent."

"Last night's hockey game. We're both huge fans. Good day, Ms. Reiner." With that he shut the door.

Phoenix was grinning.

"What do you find so funny, Wright." Miles asked, collapsing once again into the chair behind his desk.

"I just wasn't aware we were hockey fans."

Miles allowed himself a small but genuine smile and leaned towards the man across from him. "Well, I couldn't care less about the sport, how about you?"

Phoenix leaned forward conspiratorially. "It's all Canadian to me." A cloud settled over his face. "I'm worried about what you said, though. About Friday."

"What about it?"

There was that hand rubbing the back of the neck, slightly embarrassed gesture again.

"Well, it's just... I don't usually finish this stuff that fast and this was a pretty complicated thing..." Phoenix trailed off and cleared his throat, seemingly for good measure.

"Wright, you damn well better have that report done by Friday." All hints of teasing had disappeared from Edgeworth's face. Phoenix nodded.

"I'll do my best."

"How about this," Miles' mood had been lifted by successfully getting rid of the State Bar representative and Phoenix's own good humor immediately thereafter. The offer flew out of his mouth before he could even think to stop it. "You get your report in on Friday and on Saturday, I'll take us both out to dinner to celebrate getting this whole damn affair over with and done with."

To his relief, Phoenix smiled again. "Deal."

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

_CLE stands for Continuing Legal Education. Attorneys are required by the bar to keep their licenses up to date with a certain number of CLE credits every year._

_Also, a word to the wise: Even on a bad day, Miles Edgeworth can be about ten times slicker than most.:)_

_Thanks again to Serena-chan and shadowcat15 for the kind words. Serilia thanks to you, too. Glad you came out of the woodwork._

_Scurvylemons brought up a valid point and I'd like to apologize for grammar errors. I'm writing this sort of on the sly in between a terribly busy schedule but really, that's no excuse. The previous chapters have undergone minor edits for grammar and so on and I'll try to be on my best proofread behavior from here on out._

_Drop me a review and do say hello!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: This chapter contains some rather strong swearing._

* * *

It was nearly noon by the time Phoenix got into his office. The mail had already arrived and on top of the usually pile of bills and junk, was a small package, about the size of a DVD case. According to the return address, it was from Global Studios.

Curious, Phoenix sat at his desk and tore off the brown paper. Inside was a DVD with the title "The Pink Princess: Neo-Tokyo A Go-Go!" and a close up image of what looked like a rather effeminate, pink version of the Steel Samurai. An envelope was taped to the bottom of the DVD, with a short handwritten note inside.

_Dear Phoenix,_

_The made-for-TV movie comes out in a couple of months and I thought I'd forward you an advance copy. Don't forget to share this with the kid, Maya. I think she'll get a real kick out of it._

_Thanks again for everything._

_best,_

_Will_

Phoenix smiled broadly. He couldn't care less about the Pink Princess personally, but the gesture was a wonderfully sweet one. Besides, he could immediately think of someone who would be thrilled to death at the prospect of an advanced copy of Global Studios latest creation.

Maya picked up on the third ring. "Nick! I saw you on TV last, night!" The voice on the other end of the phone exclaimed without even saying hello first.

"Heh. Thanks, Maya, how are..." It was too late for pleasantries, however. Maya had started a line of conversation and it was going to continue with or without him.

"And you didn't look too awkward at all. I think I only saw you fidget four, maybe five times?"

You counted? Phoenix thought to himself. She's as weird as ever...

"And you answered most of the questions intelligently!" Maya's voice glowed as if this statement were high praise.

"Most of?"

"I dunno, like when she asked if you and Edgeworth were friends. I mean, that's kind of a weird one to define, don't you think?"

"Wait, what?" Caught in a flood of Maya-logic, Phoenix felt more than a little lost. "How is that weird?"

"Well, like, she wanted to know if you guys are friends and, I mean, you do go way back in one way or another but it's not like you guys hang out or anything. I mean, can you imagine Mr. Edgeworth going bowling or sitting in a bar?" She was laughing on the other end of the phone. "He's like the most anti-social person I've ever met! I mean, sure, you're right, he's not a bad guy at all, he's just..." Phoenix was almost sure that her finger was currently tapping her cheek in an effort to somehow drum up the right word. "He's just Edgeworth, that's all," she finished.

Brief images of the time he'd spent with Miles over the last few days floated through his head and he very nearly protested Maya's assessment but then quickly changed his mind. What good was it to say, 'Well, Edgeworth can be pretty excellent company when we're both scared about our careers and upholding trial results. Oh and we're going to dinner on Saturday.' No matter how he phrased it, Maya would have a field day picking that sort of thing apart.

"Anyway," Phoenix changed the subject, remembering why he'd called in the first place. "I have a present for you."

"For me? No way! Nick, what is it?"

Thank god, she's easily distracted, Phoenix thought.

"Will Powers just sent us a copy of the upcoming Pink Princess made-for-TV movie."

"No way!" Phoenix instinctively pulled the cell phone away from his ear, trying to avoid the powerful noise of a squealing teenage girl. "That's not supposed to come out for over two months! You're kidding! That's so awesome! Have you watched it, yet?"

"Maya," Phoenix picked up a pencil and began tapping the eraser side on his desk, "it just came in the mail this morning. I couldn't have watched it."

"Well, you _have to_ before you send it to me. Then I can call you when I'm done and we can talk all about it!"

"I really thought I'd just send it to you..." Phoenix put the pencil down, knowing he'd already lost before the argument even began.

"No, no, no! You can't do that. Nick! This was a gift from Mr. Powers! You have to appreciate it!" There was a harrumph from the other end of the phone. "Really, I never thought you'd be so rude..."

"Okay, okay, Maya." Phoenix got up and walked to the coffee machine. "I'll watch it before I send it to you." He started spooning coffee grounds into the basket and then remembered the machine was having problems. "Maya, do you have any idea what happened to the coffee maker at the office? It keeps making this stuff that's like..."

"Oh crap!" Maya sounded sudden flustered. "Uh gosh, Nick, there's... a thing! I uh... gotta go! Call you soon, okay?"

"Oh... okay."

"Bye, Nick!"

"Bye, Maya."

Click.

Phoenix, sighed. That solved it. At least now he knew that Maya was the one who broke the coffee machine before she left. He'd been meaning to ask her for two months now but for whatever reason had kept forgetting.

The smell of slightly burned coffee filled the office as Phoenix returned to his desk. He put the DVD to one side, telling himself that he'd watch it when the reports were finished. Reports he had just five days to write, he reminded himself.

Phoenix looked on the clock. He had four and a half actually. He groaned slightly. Time to get to work.

O O O

Miles should have had a mind full of things to think about. Earlier in the day he had succeeded in smoothly squeezing out the bar representative, who undoubtedly came to see if she would get anything incriminating out of conversation with either himself or Phoenix. He'd felt a short-lived but delicious feeling of conspiracy with the other lawyer afterwards. He had reports he had to finish and cases he'd promised himself he would study. There was a mountain of things to do and think about but none of them stayed in his mind for long.

Instead, by the time he walked in his front door that evening, tired and alone, there was nothing filling his head but that damned newspaper description.

_Miles Edgeworth, son of Defense Attorney Gregory Edgeworth, the protégée of the recently convicted Manfred von Karma, and oft labeled "Demon Prosecutor"..._

Miles tried to push the sentence to the back of his head. He changed clothes, tried to relax and tried to focus intently on making dinner. Heat the broth for the risotto. Heat oil in a pan. Add Arborio rice, let it become coated in oiled and translucent in color. Chop vegetables. And so on.

It should have gone smoothly. Instead, Miles' mind wandered while he chopped the vegetables and in short order he had burned the rice. Badly.

The next thing he knew he was shoving the smoking and pan with its blackening grains into the sink and watching the water hiss and steam as it hit the over hot pan. Only a moment too late, he realized his mistake and the kitchen was filling with smoke and steam, making his eyes water and threatening to set off the fire alarm.

"Fuck!" The curse came out in a breath as Miles ran to open the kitchen window and turn on the fan over the stove. "I can't do anything fucking right these days," Miles complained to himself, stalking out of the now intolerable kitchen.

He collapsed defeated into the arm chair in the living room. Sullenly rested his cheek on his fist and gave into the thoughts that had been threatening him all day.

The young prosecutor felt naked in front of all of the world. There it had been, laid out for everyone to see. He'd spent his life devoted to following the man who killed his father and it would follow his name forever. No wonder they called him a demon. Even if he wasn't a killer himself, he deserved the title for the things he'd thought, the things he'd done.

Suddenly, on a whim Miles got up and went to the bathroom mirror. He stared at his face for a time confirming his suspicion. He really did look very much like a younger version of his father. They both had the same high cheekbones, the same grey eyes. Miles pictured a pair of black rimmed glasses on his own face and the imagined image was uncanny.

His face twisted in disgust.

"Demon," he said aloud, insulting himself. "You weak-willed prick. Father betrayer. You haven't given a fuck about anything worth caring about for fifteen years. You bastard. You idiot." The insults once formed began pouring out of him, one after the other. "Heartless crap. Lonely old queen. Miserable excuse for a human being. Waste! Monster!" His voice rose now with each new insult frantically directed at his image. "Idiot! Stupid bastard! Wherethefuckdoyougofromhereyousonofabitch!" The rest of his breath pushed out of him in a yelp somewhere in between a yell and a scream.

Miles collapsed on the bathroom floor and sat leaning against the door, his arms around his knees. His breath came out of him in ragged bursts and his chest heaved. He was making noises, somewhere between panting and sobbing. He couldn't get enough air. The room was swimming around him. It wasn't alright, it would never be alright. He'd screwed up and screwed up badly.

He body suddenly demanded violent use. He had to do something, anything, with the sensation welling up inside of him. He stretched out his legs and pushed his back into the bathroom door, as if trying to become a part of the solid wooden surface. He threw his arms back, pressing the back of his hands and his shoulders into the same. After a moment he leaned forward and threw his body backwards into the door. It made a satisfying noise and his back stung as it hit the wood.

And then, just as quickly as the compulsion had come, it disappeared and he had no energy left in his limbs. He let himself slide down to the floor and lay there, his face against the cold bathroom tile, tears streaming down his face.

Miles was never sure how long he had lain on the bathroom floor. He avoided looking at the clocks after he finally rose. It may have been two minutes; it may have been two hours. His sense of time disappeared and he had no desire to know the answer.

When at last the tears had dried, he stood shakily, telling himself that now he was done, the panic attack was over. Now he had a handle on himself. He washed his face and finished brushing his teeth, avoiding his own puffy red image in the mirror.

Carefully, he organized his briefcase for the next day, ordering every item right down to the position of every pen. He carefully cleaned the kitchen, putting every dish put in its proper place, the half-made dinner carefully relegated to the refrigerator, and the blackened pan left to soak over-night. He lay out clothes for the next day and then wandered around looking for anything else out of place. He found a few books taken off their shelves but little else he could put away.

Feeling finally as if he had some measure of control over his world, having made sure that no single item in his space was awry, Miles crawled exhausted into bed.

He let sleep take him over quickly, not caring if he dreamed or not nor even really if he woke the next day.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thank you to all the kind reviewers! Knowing that folks are enjoying the words I put down makes me all the more thrilled to keep writing them._

_Also, can I say that I love writing for a fandom that makes knowing a bit of German actually kind of useful?_

* * *

Tuesday came and went. Wednesday did the same. Miles woke, worked, and returned home in a daze, unable to shake the cloud that had fallen over him. He was polite but abbreviated when spoken to and avoided people whenever he could. In the evenings he cooked simple meals and buried himself in reruns of action shows, falling asleep on the couch before stumbling off to bed.

To most of the world he looked the same as always, an extremely well-groomed, put-together, and self-possessed young man. Perhaps he looks a bit more tired than usual, he secretary commented once, but doesn't he always look tired, anyway?

Miles Edgeworth, however, also worked in close company with detectives and detectives are not most of the world. Detectives are people paid to notice things which aren't right.

Of course, it also doesn't hurt when a detective gets a very large hint.

Thursday morning, there was a knock on Miles' office door and seconds later, a large grinning, scruffy-looking man in a green trench coat burst crashed into the room without so much as an invitation..

"Morning, Mr. Edgeworth!"

"Gumshoe." Miles hardly looked up from his desk. Had it been anyone else, he probably would have been annoyed at the intrusion. Gumshoe, however, was something like the weather. He was always there, rarely worth talking about, and a convenient scapegoat in a bad mood. Privately he respected the man's professional enthusiasm but realistically he felt no match for it today.

"I brought you something, sir." Gumshoe placed a large file with a few overstuffed manila folders on Miles' desk. "I thought you'd want first crack at this case. It's a real complicated one, that's for sure."

"No." Miles said quietly.

"This woman's a college professor, okay?" The detective barreled onward eagerly. "And her husband finds out she's been cheating on him with one of her students. So she..." Gumshoe stopped midsentence, his mind working backwards. "Wait, did you just say no?"

"Yes, I did." Miles continued focusing on the document in front of him without bothering to glance up. "I'm far too busy now. I suggest you try Payne." He paused. "On the other hand, if it's as complicated as you say, it might be a better idea to see if Mr. Zakaria is available."

Miles could practically hear the hiss of Gumshoe deflating. "The office said you weren't on anything right now. Did you take another case I don't know about?"

"No, I did not. However, as I am sure you are aware, prosecutors are granted office periods between cases, should we need them."

Gumshoe had still yet to see anything but the crown of Miles' head, much to his intense confusion. By now the young lawyer should be engrossed in examining the documents in the case files, barking out orders, and, asking Gumshoe questions about the case he himself had never bothered to think of.

"Hey, you alright, pal?" The scruffy detective thought for a moment and seemed to come to a conclusion. "I heard the flu's going around. If you're not feeling well I'm willing to a make a bet..."

"I'm perfectly healthy, Gumshoe. Thank you for your concern. I'm simply not taking this case."

The detective remained standing in front of Miles' desk, speechless and scratching the back of his head. After several moments of silence Miles finally looked up.

"Was there something else, detective?"

"Er, no, sir, that's really all I came to ask."

"I see." Miles turned back to his writing. "Thank you, Detective Gumshoe."

"Uh, right then, pal. I guess I'll be going." Gumshoe hung on for a few moments longer, before picking up the untouched case file and making his way to the door. He paused and turned back to the man at the desk. "I'll recommend Zakaria gets this, like you suggested. Have a good day, okay, sir." The last statement came out almost as a question.

"Goodbye, detective." There was a streak of mild annoyance entered the young lawyer's voice and taking his cue, Gumshoe walked out the door.

The rest of Miles' day followed much the same pattern as the previous two. He did paperwork until he went home, fed himself unenthusiastically, and relegated himself to the couch, telling himself he had no energy for either books or work, allowing himself to push the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him to the back of his mind once more.

This excuse for his behavior was beginning to bother him, however, and the escapism he craved seemed elusive. With an almost resigned sigh he turned off the television and went to make himself a cup of tea.

He'd turned down a case this morning, a case Gumshoe had particularly found of interest, an act which was nearly a first for Miles Edgeworth. He'd turned down cases before, but not before having read through the file and deciding that either the matter was dull and of no interest to him and could therefore be relegated to less able and insightful prosecutors.

Prosecutors less out for glory, he corrected himself, sitting down at his table and stirring the contents of his cup absently. His case selection had also been charged by the Von Karma-like hubris that had possessed him for so many years. Where was challenge or triumph of convicting a man of manslaughter or murder in self-defense? Those things simply hadn't been allowed to exist in his crusade against the murderers and monsters in the world.

The tense of the thought struck him suddenly and the teaspoon clattered as it slipped from his fingers into the swirling liquid of his cup. Was his crusade a thing of the past tense now? He'd come to no conclusions during his month off, having decided neither to continue to peruse his role as prosecutor with the same zeal as before or to give it up in favor of something else. He had come back somewhere between the two paths, not entirely sure of where he was going. And what of that most recent case? Hadn't he done exactly what he'd told himself he was doing and gone against one of the world's monsters, even though in the end defendant herself was merely charged with evidence tampering and conspiracy?

As he drank his tea, Miles mind was suddenly brought back to Saturday morning when Phoenix had laid his hand on his arm and softly reminded him they'd done the right thing.

Suddenly he wanted very much to see Phoenix. Phoenix who, for whatever reason, considered him a friend, considered him likable, considered him good. He wanted to spend just ten minutes looking at himself through Phoenix's eyes. He wanted to make Phoenix to smile at him and crack jokes at him. To banter and feel safe and forget about everything.

Miles picked up his cell phone.

It was just past eleven-thirty at night. Too late for an idle phone call.

He wanted to hear Phoenix's voice.

He dialed.

He let it ring once before he hung it up.

Phoenix didn't need to know he couldn't pull himself together. What good would that do, save to have the other man think he was weak? Miles shook his head. He had no desire to be pitied or worse, cast off.

He dialed another number.

"Hallo." A sharp female voice answered the phone. "Was ist das? Ich habe zwanzig Minuten dann muss ich vor Gericht gehen."

"Hello, Franzika. Miles here."

"Miles, do you have any idea what time it is?" The girl on the other end of the phone spoke in clipped tones with the barest hint of an accent.

"Twenty to nine in the morning in Berlin. I must say, they're starting trials quite early over there if you have to be in court soon."

"The defense foolishly lobbied for an early morning trial." She snorted. "What a weak and foolish fool. He probably thinks it will throw me off my guard."

"I do imagine you'll teach him otherwise."

"Of course."

Miles was about to say something else but was interrupted by cracking noise on the other end of the phone and the sound of Franzika yelling at someone nearby. "Dummkopf! Ich mag mein Kaffe mit kein zuckre, du Dummkopf! Kein!" Miles drank his tea and waited for the noise to subside.

"So, Miles Edgeworth," Franzika turned her attention back to the man on the phone and switched back to English. "I hear you managed to get yourself involved in quite the foolish trial, going after the chief of police and your own boss, nonetheless."

"How did you hear of that? I have trouble believing such a small affair would make the international news."

"Of course it didn't. I merely find it prudent to follow the affairs of my little brother."

"Ah." Miles felt instinctually that she wished to say something else and he waited for her to continue.

"I may be in Los Angeles soon. Papa has asked me not to but I do wish to see him at least once more."

"Of course, you will stay with me." The question had been unasked but Miles answered anyway.

"I do not understand why you choose to stay in that foolish city. I've never really been able to stand foolish American fools myself. You ought to return to Europe."

Miles recognized an offer from Franzika when he heard one. "Thank you, Franzika. I'll keep that in mind."

"However, I myself am studying to take the bar in that awful place."

"I thought you just said you hated it here."

"I do. I have my reasons."

"I see." There was a silence while Miles wondered what those reasons might be. In the end, he decided not to ask. "Well, don't let me detain you from court." He paused. "Argue well, Franzika."

"I always do, little brother."

Miles felt very small after he got off the phone. He was, as Franzika would say, a fool. He'd had years to deal with his father's death, nightmares or no. Franzika's father, however, sat in a balance, waiting to die and so she herself was waiting to grieve. Disobeying his order not to visit him was probably the first time she'd gone against his word her entire life.

She's only seventeen, he reminded himself, shaking his head as he put his cup in the sink and wound his way towards his bedroom. And she's not made of steel, no matter what she may think.

It was to her credit, he mused, that she still willingly called him brother. It would be too easy to blame Miles for had happened, was happening, to her father. Instead, she simply called him little brother and carried on like she always had.

That night Miles drifted off to sleep wondering if she possibly knew how much respect and affection that earned her in his eyes.

O O O

One missed called, the phone declared: Miles Edgeworth, 11:34 pm.

Phoenix frowned. A drop of water from his still wet hair slid down his cheek and hit the cell phone. It was just past midnight now and too late to call. He wiped the water off the device and reconsidered. Miles had called pretty late himself and that might mean it was important.

"Hello?" A gravely voice answered on the end.

"Hey, um, it's Phoenix."

"Oh... yeah." There was a muffled sound that probably had to do with the shifting of blankets and pillows.

"Sorry, I missed your call. I was in the shower. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah... fine. It was... an accident. I dialed you by mistake." An audible yawn came from the other side of the phone.

"Oh, gotcha. Sorry, I woke you up, then."

"...'sokay."

Phoenix knew he should feel guilty about waking Miles up but the half-asleep prosecutor was, for lack of a better word, adorable. Phoenix had to bite his lip while his free hand clutched his comforter to keep from laughing at this thought.

"Hey, Miles, while I've got you off your guard, want to meet for a drink after work tomorrow?"

"Aren't we going for dinner?"

"That's Saturday. Tomorrow's Friday. Humor me."

"Okay. Fine."

"The place on Elm. See you there, six-thirty."

"Okay. Goodnight, Wright."

"Night."

_Hey, Miles, while I've got you off your guard?_

Where did that come from, Phoenix asked himself, putting the phone on the charger. And why did Miles answer his phone if he'd been asleep, especially if he'd just called him by accident?

This is Miles Edgeworth, Phoenix reminded himself as he crawled into bed. And just like always, Phoenix never really understood why he acted the way he did towards Miles or why Miles reacted in the unpredictable ways he did.

When it came to his relationship with Miles Edgeworth, he concluded, nothing made sense. He fell asleep wondering if it ever would.


	8. Chapter 8

_You guys were all so sweet and enthusiastic after the last chapter, I thought I might as well go ahead and toss this one up early. _

_Thanks for your encouragement, I really do appreciate it._

* * *

Friday evening found Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney, alone in his office, cheerfully wrapping up his day. After a grueling week, he had managed to get his reports filed by the end of the day, if just barely, and all that remained was to pick up his office and leave all of it behind in favor of the weekend.

The dying evening light streaked in through the windows and as he shuffled about, washing coffee mugs and putting files away, Phoenix let his mind wander lazily from one subject to the next. Eventually, as wandering minds are prone to do, his mind settled on the past and the figures that still lived there.

Phoenix had been crazy about Miles as a kid. He had adored every detail about the other boy from his quiet thoughtful demeanor to his shy smile. But above all, Phoenix had loved his insistence on doing the right thing, even when it resulted in his being teased or worse.

Phoenix smiled to himself as he organized the last of the paperwork that lie scattered around his desk That had been the trait that Phoenix had admired above all else. Phoenix had never been able to pull away from the other children the way that Miles had, to act on his own, to seem completely unfazed by taunts and praises alike. That Miles seemed to do so effortlessly had made him a hero in Phoenix's eyes. That his hero had wanted to be his friend and share his nearly endless supply of action figures with him had been a delight that few other things in Phoenix's childhood could rival.

Turning off his computer, Phoenix caught sight of the green rolling hills on the standard computer wallpaper and was reminded of one happy afternoon in particular when he and Miles had wrestled in the park. Phoenix had found himself so thrilled by the other boy's laughter that day, so happy to be with his friend, he'd been overcome and ended up kissing the other boy on the cheek. He had been terrified for a moment that Miles would think he was weird or run away but Miles had done neither. Instead he had just given him that small smile of his and taken Phoenix's hand like he understood.

Phoenix couldn't help but grin at the memory. For the rest of that day the child Phoenix had been had felt as though he might as well have been walking on air.

Phoenix glanced at the clock and cursed silently. He'd already missed the bus and he was going to be late meeting the adult Miles Edgeworth, who could be far less forgiving than his childhood counterpart.

It was odd, he thought, shutting off the lights at Wright and Co. and locking the door, that here he was again, fourteen years later and thrilled to death that Miles Edgeworth might want to be his friend.

Of course, it was certainly better than the cold looks and competitiveness he'd been greeted with when he first ran in to the man again, months ago. But there was more than that. He genuinely enjoyed the other man's presence and personality. Eccentric though Miles might be, Phoenix actually liked him.

Exiting the building into the glaring pinks of the sinking Los Angeles sun, Phoenix smiled. And what was wrong with that? What was wrong with liking another person?

Perhaps, Phoenix thought, making his way down the street to the bus stop, perhaps some things just never change.

O O O

Miles arrived at the bar at six-thirty exactly and was unsurprised to see Phoenix was not yet there. Stopping at the door, he allowed himself to pause and ask himself one final time, why, in fact, he was there.

The answer came back quite simply: he had wanted to talk to Phoenix and in that moment Phoenix had asked him to meet, so he had agreed.

Unfortunately, the answer begged another question. Why had he wanted so badly to talk to Phoenix? Miles shoved the question to the back of his mind and walked to the bar. That was a question he would have rather not have to answer.

The same young elfin woman he had seen last time stood behind the bar, her blossoming pile of curly brown hair barely constrained by a scrunchy on the back of her head. She was chatting with a pair of young women at the far end of the bar. They all wore jeans, t-shirts, and pleasantly relaxed expressions. Still wearing his suit from work and sitting down at the opposite end, Miles felt horribly out of place and alone.

After a few moments the bartender pulled herself away from the other two women and approached Miles, placing a small cardboard coaster in front of him.

"Heya."

"Hello."

"You were in here last week right? Pinot Noir?"

Miles was mildly impressed. He hadn't even spoken to the woman when he Phoenix had come in before.

"That's correct. You have a good memory."

"Naw, I just remember a man with good taste. That's why they give me the big bucks." She smiled at him broadly and Miles wondered vaguely if he ought to smile back. "What'll it be this time? Same thing?"

Miles was about to agree but then he stopped, remembering what Phoenix had said about finding the right beer. "I liked the wine you recommended. Do you think you could recommend a beer?"

"Heck yeah." The girl pulled out a small glass and poured an ounce of dark brownish red beer into it. "Try this."

Miles sniffed at the glass as if it were about to bite him. The scent was yeasty and floral and not entirely unpleasant. He sipped the contents. The beer was smoky and dry and while it certainly tasted nothing like the wine, it made his jaw pleasantly ache in the same places.

"That's very nice. What is it?"

"It's a porter. It's a good beer for folks who like Pinot." She leaned over the bar as she spoke and Miles noticed the scoop neck on her t-shirt fell so that her breasts became more visible. Miles sat up at a straighter angle and distanced himself from the bar slightly.

"I'll take a glass of that, please."

"No problem." She flashed him another thousand watt smile and went to the other end of the bar, her hair bouncing behind her as she walked.

While he waited for his beer, Miles examined the coaster. It depicted a toucan, who had in his mouth what appeared to be a pint class. A British police officer reached up towards the offending bird and the caption read, "My Goodness! My Guinness!"

"Sorry," A voice spoke up next to Miles. He looked up and found himself face to face with Phoenix. "I should probably give you some sort of story about a beautiful young woman with lots of money needing my help, but the truth is, well," Phoenix shrugged. "I'm me. I lost track of time. I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright," Miles said, that ghost of a polite smile wavering across his lips. "Besides, as much as you may wish your life were some sort of film noir with that tiny office of yours, I'd know it's not the truth."

"Ouch," Phoenix laughed, "I don't know what's wounded more, my pride in my office or my sense of fantasy," he said sitting down next to Miles. "Let me at least get a beer before insult me further." He directed his attention to the bartender. "Hey, Katie."

"Hey, Nick!" The police officer was quickly covered by a stout round glass and the toucan endured a small rainfall as some of the beer sloshed over the side while the girl gave Miles his drink and, at the same time, leaned over the bar to kiss the blue-eyed lawyer on the cheek.

"You got anything light on tap?" Phoenix tapped the bar with his knuckles in a cheerful sort of way. "I'm in a fluffy beer sort of mood."

"Well, I've got a lambic and a hefeweizen."

"Hm, German me up." He said with a final rap of hands.

The girl giggled at this, as she went to pour his beer. "Sure thing."

"So," Phoenix turned slightly to face Miles. "I handed in my reports this afternoon."

"Congratulations."

"That means," Phoenix continued, "that you owe me dinner."

"I suppose I do."

"Ich hat dein Hefeweizen, mein Herr." Katie said, jovially, setting down a tall light colored beer in front of Phoenix.

"Ich _habe_ dein_er_ Hefewiezen, mein Herr." Miles corrected absently.

"Thanks, Katie." He turned his attention back to Miles. "I didn't know you spoke German."

"Of course, I do," Miles said matter-of-factly. "I speak French and Italian, as well." Miles paused. Phoenix was clearly impressed and he felt as if he ought to say something more. "German is the best language to be upset in, however."

Phoenix laughed at this. "Let me hear you say something in German."

"You just did."

"Come on, something else."

Miles took in the man next to him. "Wenn ich etwas sage, stoppst du fragen?" He finally said.

Phoenix was laughing. "That does sound terrifying. What did you say?"

"If I say something, will you stop asking?"

Phoenix laughed even harder.

Miles smiled, more to himself than to anyone around. For the first time that week he felt a sort of triumph and happiness, simply knowing he was able to make this man laugh.

"So," Phoenix said, becoming more serious. "I heard you turned down a case yesterday."

Miles raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Where did you hear that?"

"Well, um," a mild blush entered Phoenix's cheeks and his attention turned in the direction of the poor soaked toucan. "Gumshoe mentioned it to Jake Marshall and he told Angel Starr who decided to come by my office today and bring me lunch."

"Why on earth did that woman bring you lunch."

"Well, she wanted to talk about the press the case received."

"And let me guess," Miles cut in, "she'd decided that adding a defense attorney to her list of boyfriends might not be a bad idea?"

Phoenix was turning a deeper shade of pink.

"So did you take her up on it?" Miles asked, calmly sipping his beer.

"What? No!"

"That's a relief."

"Anyway," Phoenix was struggling to regain control of the conversation and it amused Miles to watch him try. "I didn't know you were allowed to refuse cases at the Prosecutors' Office."

"We are if there is a conflict of interests."

"Was there?"

"No," Miles said honestly. "There are, however," he paused carefully phrasing his sentence, "advantages to being 'King of Prosecutors.'"

"What does that even mean, 'King of Prosecutors,'" Phoenix asked curiously.

"Nothing. It's just another self-aggrandizing award meant to make us feel even more stupidly powerful and thrilled about our success and standing in the world. More than anything it's pure ego."

Miles said nothing after his outburst and this time there was no comforting hand on his arm from Phoenix.

Instead, this time, Phoenix took a different tactic.

"You're drinking beer," he said lightly. "Would it be weird if I said I was proud of you for trying something new?"

"Very."

"Good. I think I like weird."

Miles looked up and met to the other man's eyes as Phoenix smiled at him.

He really is a remarkable man in his own way, Miles thought to himself. That mixture of intelligence and selflessness that makes up Phoenix is so rare in anyone.

As he watched the way the other man's eyes sparkled blue as he talked and the animation that decorated his handsome face, he found himself wondering if he felt something other than respect for the other man.

The thought came unbidden and Miles immediately tried to shove it away. It would not stay buried however, and a small voice nagged at the edge of his consciousness. How do you really feel about him, the voice asked quietly.

"Miles?"

"Wh...what?" Miles head snapped up and he realized he'd been gazing off.

"Why are you blushing?"

Miles sat up as straight as the barstool would allow him to and adjusted his vest. "I am not blushing, Wright. It's the alcohol. I rarely drink beer."

"Um-hum." The other man looked at him levelly over his glass while he drank his own beer. "At least you know your face is red."

The girl behind the bar with the unruly hair chose that moment to save Miles from having to follow that line of conversation any further.

"Hey, where's Larry?" she asked. "I haven't seen him around lately."

"Oh," Phoenix said, "he's... being Larry." Phoenix laughed, but this time it was a different laugh than the one he gave Miles. It was more of a harrumph and anyone could detect a note of frustration in it.

Miles thought to inquire about Larry but he wasn't sure he could really bring himself to care. Instead, he let Phoenix carry the conversation on to other topics. They talked instead about beer and about Phoenix's assistant and even argued for a moment about the viability of the current appeals process, an argument Miles was only too happy to win.

And then it seemed two rounds were gone and Phoenix was complaining of tiredness from having stayed up so late writing so many nights in a row. And then Miles was driving home, once again alone, and all his thoughts were threatening to bury him.

But the quiet voice on the edge of his mind was still nagging him, no matter how loudly the other thoughts clamored, no matter how hard he pushed everything away from his consciousness. Why, it asked, did you really want to see him so badly?

O O O

Somewhere between waking and sleep Phoenix caught himself dreaming about kissing Miles. Somehow his thoughts had wandered towards the man and with the freedom of a half-asleep mind, he had found himself thinking about what it would be like to kiss his friend, about the curve of his lips and what it might feel like if his mouth parted, what he might taste like, that cool skin melting under his fingers...

Phoenix woke up completely.

Had he really just been dreaming about that? He rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his hair staring up at the ceiling. Was he really lying there dreaming about making out with another man?

In the safety and privacy of his dark, empty bedroom Phoenix reminded himself that he'd wondered if he'd had inclinations in that direction before. Once in college, he'd even snuck off to a gay bar by himself. The experiment had been a disaster, however. He'd spent an hour sitting in the corner, uncomfortably nursing a drink, afraid to talk to anyone, and then sullenly headed back to his dorm.

That experience by itself, though, didn't mean much, he argued to himself. He'd been in theatre, for crying out loud. It had been a whole different world, with people of all sorts of persuasions, many of them very vocal about it. It had been completely normal to strike out and wonder about those sorts of things. That sexual identity was made to be explored had practically been the rallying cry of the theatre department.

Phoenix rolled on to his side and buried half his face in the pillow.

That was only part of the issue. Deep down in the quieter parts of himself, Phoenix was pretty sure that under the right circumstances, even if they had to be quite extraordinary, he wouldn't mind taking a step or two in that direction. The other part of the issue was that it was Miles. Miles who had sat for so many years on a pedestal in his head. Miles the inspiration. Miles in need of a savior. Miles who could never be guilty. Miles who was finally, somehow, now simply his friend.

He remembered that he'd thought about kissing Miles before, but it had been a dream-Miles not the real one. Phoenix had been in his early teens at the time and his mind still drifted to strange places when he thought about sex. He had imagined himself and the silvery hair boy back at the park, rolling down the hill again, only in his imagination now they were older and instead of a kiss on the cheek Phoenix had given him a real kiss. The boy-Miles he'd known had grown up in his imagination to be a teenage boy, so beautiful, his silver hair falling around his pale skin and pink cheeks and when Phoenix had thought about kissing him, he had kissed him back intensely in his dreams...

Phoenix shook his head and rolled on to his back again. He was doing it again; he reprimanded himself, even if it was through the half-forgotten memories of an adolescent fantasy.

The problem though, was that in a way Miles had grown up to be the man he'd dreamed about. Even if he'd become aloof and cold in a way that the child never had been, he was still a powerful force in the face of the opinions of others. He still had that same sense of odd grace and sweet nervousness that followed every private action. He had that pale skin that still betrayed a boyish blush when it spread over his cheeks, that hair that framed his face and caught the light when he moved, and that sharp look in his bright eyes when his glance met with Phoenix's.

He was more than a dream. He was real.

Oh god, how Phoenix wanted him.

Phoenix wrapped his body around the second pillow in his bed, curling up into a child's position of sleep, as if that would somehow drive the longing away. Now that he recognized the desire, he wasn't entirely sure what to do with it.

Phoenix closed his eyes and wished it away. He wished it away with all his heart.

Still, his dreams betrayed him.


	9. Chapter 9

_As always, thanks to everyone who has interviewed or faved this story. As I said earlier in a message to momiji, I think that one of the really wonderful things about fanfiction is that it's a fictional universe we've all agreed to play in together. The fact that people are willing to "play with me" in my project, so to speak, really does mean a great deal to me._

* * *

Going out to dinner with Miles Edgeworth turned out to be one of the most awkward, nerve-wracking, and ultimately exhilarating experiences up to that point in Phoenix's life.

For most of the day Phoenix's half-awake thoughts of the night before stayed nicely at bay, distant as his mind focused on other matters, like doing his laundry or pleasantly napping through half of an afternoon movie.

Actually seeing Miles, however, brought back memories of every unbidden thought that had come the night before. They hadn't even ordered the wine before Phoenix found himself offering a small prayer, to whatever gods or deities might see fit to comfort young attorneys, that in last 24 hours the prosecutor had not developed a knack for reading minds.

That evening the pair met at a restaurant of Miles choosing. It was a somewhat ostentatious place, although it was that type of ostentatiousness that pretended towards simplicity for the sake of pretension. The walls and carpet were a lush red but the tables and chairs were made of darkly stained wood and tablecloth was no more adventurous than white. The dishes were as plain-colored as the cloth but made in sharp geometric squares and triangles, over-large for the food they presented. The food itself was claimed to Spanish-French fusion and pretended to bring together distant culinary traditions into, what was in the end, a menu of nice but fairly standard cuisine.

In short, it was one of those restaurants that could be found all over certain Los Angeles neighborhoods, demanding high prices and maintaining a somewhat unfathomable popularity, all the while being hardly distinguishable from the rest.

Most of the evening was a sort of haze to Phoenix and he felt as though he were on auto-pilot as they bantered, argued, and talked. But then Miles would do something, something very small, like reach for his wine glass or glance at Phoenix sideways, and some vaguely remembered part of a dream would flitter back and ripple through Phoenix's body in a momentary quake of desire.

The whole evening Phoenix felt as if he were in a tug-of-war with himself, caught between the naked enjoyment of the other man's presence and a mixture of guilt and denial that such a thing was even happening.

This isn't you, he tried to tell himself, over and over. This is all going to go away in a day or two.

Phoenix, however, was not in the habit of lying to himself. Immediately he would yell back in his head, _no_ this is you. Just deal with it... somehow.

Remarkably, he managed to make it through the salad and the entree and keep up his end of the conversation while all this was going on in his head.

After the meal was over they sat finishing a bottle of Bordeaux between them. The combination of rich food and red wine had gone to his head and Phoenix found himself gazing into the hazy light of a candle in a red glass holder on the side of the table. Really, he thought, what was he supposed to do now? Something? Anything? Nothing?

The last thing he needed, Phoenix decided, was for Miles to discover he had a crush on him. He imagined one of two outcomes. In the first scenario, Miles would laugh at him and unpleasantly hold this piece of knowledge over Phoenix's head at every opportunity. Or, and this, in Phoenix's mind, was the worse of the two, he would respond with a simple "I see" and coldly disappear from Phoenix's life. Either way, it meant the destruction of the tenuous friendship that Phoenix felt had been so hard won.

"Is the candle interesting, Wright?" Miles voice cut through the mists of Phoenix's thoughts and bit into his ears. "You know, no matter how hard you stare you won't see your future."

Phoenix's head jerked up. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

"About what?"

Phoenix's mind went into a panic and began sifting around for some little detail, anything he could say that wouldn't give him away.

And then he remembered he had a trump card, one he'd carefully stowed away a week ago.

"Oh, that you never did tell me how you recognized the Steel Samurai ringtone," Phoenix said, casually.

"That's it?" Miles sipped at his wine. "It's obvious, I was the prosecutor on the Will Powers trial."

"But the theme song never came up," Phoenix pressed.

Miles smirked and shook his head at the man across the table. "But I did watch a few episodes- for research, of course."

"Not possible."

"Oh?" Miles raised an eyebrow and Phoenix leaned back in his chair, not breaking the other man's gaze. Like so many conversation they had, a single innocuous subject was devolving into less of a topic than a battle of wits. All that remained was to see who won this round and how.

"There was no need to have anything more than the barest of familiarity with the show for that case." Phoenix explained. "All you needed to know was who the actors were and what their costumes looked like."

"Ah, but unlike you, Wright, I don't have an obsessed teenage assistant ready to fill me in on all the details."

Phoenix waved a hand. "Irrelevant. All that was required to get that information was to look at the police report and glance at a poster for the show."

Miles took another casual sip of his wine and shook his head again. "Sorry, Wright, but going above and beyond in my research is something I do quite readily."

Phoenix smiled. Miles Edgeworth was in a corner and he knew it.

"Now I'm sorry, Edgeworth. The Steel Samurai is an hour long show- forty-four minutes if you remove the commercials."

"And your point is?"

"My point is, that there is no way that a man like you, a man who hates wasting time for the sake of wasting time, would spend..." Phoenix tapped his chin with his finger while he did a calculation. "...almost two and a half hours, which is the minimum to watch the admitted few shows, on further research that wasn't even necessary."

Phoenix looked at the man across the table from him triumphantly. Miles met his eyes with a steely glare of his own before finally giving up.

"Fine, fine." Miles swallowed deeply, emptying the last of the wine from his glass. "I've been known to watch an episode or two."

"An episode or two?" Phoenix leaned forward now, a look of keen interest on his face.

"Alright, more than an episode or two." With that Miles took on the tone of a man suddenly called to lecture in his own defense. "You know, a lot of action shows are actually quite sophisticated in terms of plot and characterization these days. Global Studios' entire Neo Olde Tokyo franchise is actually rather interesting, particularly when one acknowledges how it draws on the esthetic of Noh theatre and the story elements of medieval English heroic ballads..."

In the midst of the other man's diatribe, Phoenix was hit by another moment of inspiration.

"Miles Edgeworth, I need you."

"What?"

Phoenix took a moment to savor the other man's surprise and his victory in having completely halted his train of thought.

"Will Powers, he sent me this DVD," Phoenix explained. "And I was just going to send it to Maya but she's insisting that I watch it. It's the made-for-TV movie of the Pink Princess."

"That doesn't come out for almost two months." Miles said before he could catch himself.

"Heh, exactly." Phoenix smiled. "This is why I need you. Maya is going to make me have a real conversation about this, I just know it. But..." Phoenix shrugged. "I never watch these things. I have no idea what to say. Besides," he took a drink of his wine, "it might be fun if I watched it with someone who likes this stuff."

"I wouldn't say I..."

"Please," Phoenix interrupted him. "Do me a favor. Come over to my place next Friday and watch the Pink Princess with me." Phoenix shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "I can't believe I actually just said that sentence and meant it."

"Funny, I can. Believe it, that is."

Phoenix shot him cross but good-natured look then drained the final drops of his wine. "So, will you?"

Miles sighed. "On one condition."

"Name it."

Miles leaned forward seriously. Phoenix did the same.

"That you never, never say anything about this to anyone we work with, under any circumstances," he said seriously. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." Phoenix smiled. He leaned forward another inch, deepening the friendly conspiracy. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me," he teased, softly.

Their faces were remarkably close. Neither man so much as broke eye contact.

"I don't know," Miles responded slowly, "if anything is safe with you."

The air hung thickly between them. Phoenix could feel that his face was warm and wine he'd drunk beat in his veins, pounding in his ears.

And then both men shifted back in their seats and the moment was gone.

Did I just imagine that? Phoenix wondered. Did that really happen or is the wine making me see things?

This was not a question Phoenix was allowed to dwell on, however, as their waiter chose just that moment to appear by their table, desserts and coffee in hand.

"Two cappuccinos," he said, setting down a small foam covered cup in front of each of them. "An apricot tart," this he set in front of Phoenix, "and creme brulee," he said setting a small dish in front of Miles. "Can I get you anything else?"

Miles shook his head and the waiter was gone, lost in the background of the red walls and dim lights.

Conversation seemed to have died as both men idly stirred at their coffee cups and nibbled on their desserts.

"You know," Phoenix said, finally. "I've never actually had creme brulee"

"Really? It's quite good. And," Miles gave him that strange half-smile, "it's really oddly satisfying cracking the top for the first bite."

Phoenix examined the small dish with its thin layer of hardened sugar now broken into bits across the delicate custard.

"It looks good," he decided. " Mind if I try a bite?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

Miles picked up a spoonful of the dessert in question. "Maybe."

He held the spoon over the center of the table. Phoenix raised his eyebrows and then, seeing that the spoon hadn't moved, shrugged lightly and leaned forward to take the proffered bite. As he leaned forward Miles pulled the spoon backwards and chuckled lightly. "I said maybe."

"Ha." Phoenix reached out and quickly captured the other man's hand. Then, holding it in his own, he leaned over again and gracefully consumed the custard in a single bite.

"Maybe, huh?" He said, leaning backwards, his fingers sliding over Miles' hand.

"I suppose," Miles said, examining the now empty spoon, "that was a yes."

Phoenix's head swam. Yes to what?

He and Miles bantered and teased, that was true. It was something that came naturally, extending from rivalry into light-hearted insults and rebuttals. But was what they were doing now crossing the line from platonic to... something slightly less so?

They finished up dessert quickly and Miles unceremoniously paid for the check. There was little said between them as they left the restaurant but neither man could be said to have been unhappy. Their cheeks glowed with the wine the few comments they exchanged were light and easy.

As Miles fished for the ticket to give to the valet a thought occurred to Phoenix.

"We did split a bottle of wine, do you really think you ought to drive?"

Miles glanced at him and seemed to be calculating his options. "Will it make you feel better if I call a taxi?"

"Much."

Ten minutes later, the men found themselves in the darkened back of a cab, the neon lights of the city streaking over them as they drove, interrupting the more constant glow of Miles's phone while he appeared to check for messages.

"Are you hiding any girlfriends I should know about?" Phoenix teased, glancing over at the phone.

Miles simply raised an eyebrow and shut his phone. The eyebrow spoke volumes upon volumes. Phoenix got the point and laughed lightly.

"Okay, okay. Hidden boyfriends, then."

"No."

Miles said nothing more but put his phone away. Their hands both rested in the space between now them and Phoenix was vaguely aware that the backs of their fingers touched at various moments.

Then they were stopped in front of Miles apartment and the ride was over.

Miles opened the door, took several bills out of his wallet and handed them to Phoenix. Then he paused.

"Wright, how much do you remember of when we were kids?" Miles asked.

"I think I remember everything." The question came out of nowhere and Phoenix answered honestly, too off guard to think of a clever response.

"Then you know that I owe you this." His lips were warm and lingered for only a moment, as he quickly leaned over and gently pressed them to Phoenix's cheek. Then Miles slid out of the taxi.

"Goodnight, Wright." And he shut the door.

Phoenix didn't breath until the taxi driver asked him where he lived and he summoned air into his lungs, struggling to tell the man his own address.

O O O

Miles was already in a foul mood by the time he reached his front door.

What. The. Hell. Was. He. Doing.

He asked himself this over and over again as he opened the door, kicked off his shoes and went to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a healthy scotch and wandered into the kitchen in search of an ice cube.

What the hell was he doing with Phoenix, anyway. Teasing him, kissing him on the cheek, agreeing to spend an evening with him, yet again. Where was he going with all of this? Phoenix wasn't some starry-eyed history major or first year law school student, wowed by the success Miles had achieved at such a young age or the money he spent on drinks. Phoenix was the man who'd personally saved him from a murder charge, the man who could match him in a courtroom, and quite possibly one of the few people Miles felt that maybe he could trust.

Christ, Miles was low to even think about trying anything on a man he respected as much.

But there had been moments that evening when Phoenix had, had such a look in his eyes, Miles' blood heated up just remembering.

Like he often did when thinking, Miles drifted towards the window and stared out at the city. The view from his kitchen was incredibly abbreviated compared to that of his office. Living on the fifth floor, he could see just to the end of the next block and a bit more but it was really just a microcosm of the same. In his mind, he played a game and imagined himself flying down the street and then out of the city, picking out neighborhoods below him and attaching significant events from the last four years to different sections of the city.

His memory proved to be faulty, however. His second trial- had the murder occurred in Westlake or Pico-Union? As he tried to think, all of Los Angeles seemed to be blurring in his mind. Had he been to the restaurant they'd gone to that evening before or had it been another one, much like it?

He could hear Franzika's words in his head, "I do not know why you choose to stay in that foolish city." He wasn't sure he had an answer.

Once it had been his playground: Miles Edgeworth, demon prosecutor, money pouring out of his pockets, a perfect win record, the best restaurants, and when he had felt inclined- which admittedly hadn't been all that often- there were college boys who were just so damned impressed with him and happy to follow him home for the night...

Respect and affection and genuine desire churned in Miles head while he drank his scotch and stared, thinking of the blue-eyed defense attorney. How much do you really feel for him, the small voice on the edge of his mind spoke up again, would it be so bad with him?

Yes, Miles thought, it would be. The last thing Phoenix needed was a ticket into Miles' world, where everyone was guilty and the only pleasure came from one's ability to be extraordinary. Not Phoenix, with his faith in people and loyalty. Not Phoenix who wanted so badly to be good.

Miles poured himself another scotch and went into his room. From the top shelf of his closet he took a worn, carved wooden box, the type often seen at street fairs. Taking another large swallow of scotch, he sat down on his bed next to the box and opened the tarnished brass clasp.

Inside, two stacks of letters stood side by side, every last one from the same person. He had never replied to a single one.

Looking at the stacks of letters, a cold empty feeling spread over his chest. A foolish impulse flashed through his mind that he ought to run to the author of the letters and beg- although for what, he wasn't sure. Forgiveness? Love? Punishment?

Phoenix, Phoenix, I became a monster. Miles lips formed the words but his voice remained silent.

Perhaps things could be different, he thought dully. Perhaps he could grow into another sort of man, the sort of man who would give a damn about the world around him and respond to letters and not feel so damned guilty for kissing Phoenix Wright on the cheek.

No. It was not possible. Miles was a man short on compassion, particularly for himself. He suffered no excuses and offered none in return. What was done was done and in exchange, the future seemed terrifying empty.

Miles drained the last of his scotch and felt the warm burn of the whisky as it trickled down his throat and filled his aching chest with fire.


	10. Chapter 10

_This chapter is dedicated to everyone who has ever talked to themselves in a mirror._

_Also, to my bartender. I love my bartender._

_I played with Larry's characterization just a smidge, so if he seems a little bit out of character, please allow me to extend my preemptive apologies to all the rabid Larry fangirls out there. (Are there rabid Larry fangirls?)_

* * *

On the inside of the closet door in Phoenix's bedroom there was a full length mirror, left by a previous tenant. Phoenix wasn't particularly vain but he'd kept it where it was and generally used it to make sure his tie was on straight.

On Sunday morning he stood in front of it in his boxers and confronted his own image.

"Please tell the court your name and occupation." He asked himself.

"Phoenix Wright, Attorney at Law." He paused and then corrected himself with a little snap of his fingers and a point in the direction of his reflection. "Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney."

"Mr. Wright, you are accused of having a crush on another man." He said, beginning to cross-examine himself.

"Oh?"

"Have you ever been in a serious relationship, Mr. Wright?"

"Yes, I have."

"And was it with a man or a woman?"

"It was with a woman!"

"And were you attracted to her?"

"Very much so."

"And have you ever been physically involved with a man?"

"Objection!" He pointed a finger at his reflection and doing his best impression of a prosecutor. "Whether or not the witness has been physically involved with a man is irrelevant! The question is whether or not he wants to!"

"Objection!" He pointed with his other finger, in his own defense. "The witness is 24 years old! Don't you think if he wanted to he would have already done so?"

"Maybe the witness was chicken or confused because he's also finds women attractive!"

"Objection sustained."

"Mr. Wright. Will you please testify to the court, how you feel about Miles Edgeworth?"

Phoenix paused in his diatribe, all the energy slowly running out of him. He studied his own face in the mirror. All silliness aside, the expression certainly did remind him of someone who wasn't eager to tell the truth on the stand.

"You really are crazy about him, aren't you?" He said to his reflection.

He closed the closet door, hiding the mirror with his image and sank down on to his bed.

It wasn't really his fault, he told himself. How could it be? It was all Miles' fault. Miles with that violent intelligence in those sharp grey eyes. His cool arrogance, hiding a much a more insecure man. His careful wit and small smiles, usually so carefully hidden.

Phoenix sighed and lay back on the covers. His heart hung in a balance between the gleeful pounding of new affection and the pressure of the fear of the newness. He wondered what it might be like being sexually involved with a man. Images he'd seen and comments he'd heard over the years drifted through his head and his stomach tightened into knots.

Phoenix needed to talk to someone. Someone he could trust and someone who wouldn't make fun of him. Someone who would listen and help him think reasonably.

Not having anyone like that, he finally settled on calling Larry.

O O O

They met at the bar on Elm that afternoon. Larry spent much of the first drink moaning about a woman named Melissa, with whom he'd gone out twice but who now didn't return his calls. Katie, once again behind the bar, wisely took this as cue to tend to needs of less plaintive customers.

"...and we would have been great together, I just know it." Larry lamented. "I can see us now, Larry and Melissa." He was staring off a starry look in his eyes.

"Sounds like it's her loss."

"She's beautiful, too. She's a student at UCLA but she makes extra money modeling for art classes."

"Really? I guess that's kind of impressive."

"Okay, so what's up, anyway?" The starry look disappeared from Larry's eyes and he looked very serious.

"What, what?" Phoenix stammered momentarily lost.

"Well, first off, you called me. Second, you haven't stopped tapping your beer glass since it sat down in front of you. The number one weird though, is that you've been trying to make me feel better, which is, no offense, Nick, is weird as hell coming from you."

"Oh. Um yeah, I guess."

"So what is it?" Larry's whole being tensed and Phoenix could tell he was preparing himself to hear that Phoenix had cancer or something equally awful. Phoenix swallowed. He'd put himself in a corner and now he had to actually say it.

"I um... I sort of have feelings for someone... a, uh, guy."

"That's it?" Larry practically exploded, relief palpably emanating from his body. "I thought it was something bad. Geez, Nick, I've been expecting that one for years."

"What?!" This wasn't the reaction Phoenix expected.

"Dude," Larry held his hands in front of him in a gesture of mock protection. "Don't spill my beer, okay?"

"Sorry, sorry." He apologized. "I just want to know what you meant by that."

Larry shrugged and sipped his beer. "I've just been expecting you to say that since we were like fourteen years old, is all."

"But... but..." Phoenix protested weakly. "I've always liked girls."

"Well, yeah," Larry said thoughtfully, "and you were with that chick for a while in college."

"So why the hell have you been waiting for me to say that I have a crush on a guy since we were fourteen years old?" Phoenix asked defensively.

"Well, let's just say..." Larry's mouth twisted and he looked up and to the side, as if the words he were looking for might appear in the corner of the bar ceiling. "I know you, dude." He said finally, as if that explained everything.

Phoenix was quiet for a minute, taking into account this statement and its source.

"So," he said, quietly. "Was it always that obvious?"

"No, no!" Larry sat up straighter and protested perhaps a bit too loudly. "Not really, no!" He took a long drink of beer and continued while Phoenix waited for him to explain. "Look, Nick. I am bad with women, bad at working, was never great in school, and to be honest, we all know I'm not a genius. But that doesn't mean I don't pay attention to my friends. I mean, there's a reason you still hang out with me right?"

Larry turned back to his beer and when it became obvious that Phoenix had no further objections, he laughed a little too loudly. "So, who's the dude?"

Phoenix found his face growing warm and his line of sight not taking in much more than the foam in the pint glass in front of him. "I really don't feel like saying," he said half to his friend, half in the glass.

"It's Edgeworth, isn't it!"

Phoenix jumped and stared at his friend who was in the middle of an enormous fit of laughter.

"I was just joking but..." He said trying to calm down but still struggling to get the words out through the guffaws. "Man, that is totally not a surprise."

The familiar bob of curly hair appeared in front of them as the bartender scooped up the now empty beer glasses.

"You guys need another round, right? IPA and a lager?" Both men nodded. "So," Katie said, filling both glasses with amber beer. "Did I overhear that Nick has a crush?

"Do you know Miles Edgeworth?" Larry leaned over conspiratorially.

"Is he that guy who's been in here with you a couple of times?" She asked Phoenix, giving him his beer.

Phoenix nodded dumbly.

"Oooh," Katie squealed, smacking him playfully on the arm. "He's cuuute."

Phoenix's felt his face heat up unpleasantly, again.

"Aw, why are you blushing?" The bartender teased. "You've got good taste." She handed Larry his beer and leaned over the bar. "So, is he's sweet on you, too? He's gotta be, right?"

"Congratulations, Nick. You've admitted to liking dudes for about, um" he checked his watch, "four minutes now and you already have a fag hag." Katie swatted at Larry across the bar.

"Shut-up, Larry."

"He kissed me on the cheek last night." Phoenix mumbled.

"What?" Larry prodded his arm.

"I said he kissed me on the cheek last night." Phoenix said a little louder.

"Well, I'd say that clinches it," said Katie. Larry nodded in agreement.

"Not really." Phoenix shook his head. "I mean, we split a whole bottle of wine and then he was sort of referring to this thing that happened when we were kids when we were at the park and..." He paused, realizing he'd begun to ramble. "It's a long story."

"Wait, so you guys knew each other when you were kids?"

"Yeah." Larry gestured to himself and Phoenix. "The three of us were all pals, way back when we were small."

"No way. Okay," she pointed towards a couple at the other end of the bar who had just sat down. "I'm going to take care of those guys and when I get back, I want you to pop me the way back machine and tell me _everything_, 'kay?"

"Sure thing," Larry smiled.

"What do you mean 'sure thing?'" Phoenix asked turning to his friend, as the girl left. "There's no _everything_," he said, emphasizing the word in a parody of the drawn out way the Katie had said it.

"You're..." Larry nearly choked and then managed to squeeze out the rest of his sentence. "You're kidding right?" When Phoenix didn't respond, Larry clapped him on the back. "Listen up, bro-man. I guess you need to hear this, too."

A few minutes later, the bartender was back and stood in front of them washing glasses and ready to talk. "Okay, story time."

"A'ight." Larry leaned forward, clearly enjoying having an audience. "Basically, the story is that Nick here has been chasing after Miles Edgeworth his whole life."

"That's not..." Phoenix started to protest.

"Cram it, Nick. I'm telling the story and you know it's true. Anyway," Larry turned back to the bartender. "I didn't even know this until a few months back, but apparently he became a lawyer because this guy stood up for him when we were in the fourth grade."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah..." Phoenix acknowledged.

"See, Nick was getting totally blamed for something I did; only I wasn't there to admit that I was the screw up. Everybody was piling on Nick, students, even the teachers. Then ten-year-old Miles Edgeworth got up and proved that it couldn't have been Nick. Nick was practically in love with him after that."

"Hey, Larry, I was ten."

"Yeah, that's true." Larry tugged on his goatee thoughtfully. "The three of us were all pretty tight for a while after that."

"So, what happened?" Katie asked.

"Well, Edgeworth suddenly disappeared without a trace," Larry snapped his fingers. "Like one day he was at school and the next, boom, he was gone. This guy," he pointed at Phoenix, "wrote him letters for what, two years?"

"Three..." Phoenix said weakly.

Larry scowled and looked upwards. "Yeah, three years. Anyway, flash forward, to college, right? Nick is a theatre major at this point and we're twenty, I think? So this was over four years ago. Neither of us has seen Edgeworth in a decade. Then one day Edgeworth's picture shows up in the newspaper and the next day Nick's got a double major in pre-law."

"It wasn't exactly like that..." Phoenix said weakly.

"So wait, you went into law just to meet up with this guy?" Katie asked.

"Sort of. It's a lot more complicated than that. And there were a lot of things that happened later, too."

"True." Larry said. "Like that whole thing with the girlfriend..."

"Mia."

"Mia wasn't the girlfriend."

"No, but Mia was a hell of an inspiration."

Larry nodded respecting his friend's memory and then quietly raised his glass.

"A good woman, Mia."

"One hell of a human being." Phoenix raised his glass in concert. They both drank and were silent for a moment. Katie didn't press the point by asking.

"Anyway," Larry continued, "the story gets so much better. So, Nick finally met up with Edgeworth again in court, only the guy was a prosecutor now and they don't even get along at all."

"Aw," the girl made a sympathetic noise.

"Man," Larry said. "Even if he wouldn't admit it, he had some sad beers over that one. But then! At the end of last year, Edgeworth got put on trial for murder and he didn't even want a defense attorney because he confessed to the whole thing."

"I think I remember something like that," Katie said turning to Phoenix. "It was in the papers, right?"

"Yeah, a little," Phoenix admitted.

"Nick had so much faith in this guy he refused to believe he was guilty and defended him against his will."

"Whoa."

"Well," said Phoenix, "he wasn't."

"And that brings us to where we are today." Larry swept one hand across the air, indicating a marquee. "Edgeworth and Wright. Legal Eagles and Childhood Pals. That was the name of the headline, right?" He asked Phoenix.

"Something like that."

"Well," Katie leaned over towards, Phoenix. "I think it all sounds really romantic."

Phoenix sighed, recognizing that his friends were at least making an effort. "I just don't know what to do," he said at last. "I am so, so lost right now."

"Let me ask you this," the girl said. "Have you ever been with a guy? Like romantically or anything?"

"No." Phoenix's face started getting warm again and he had trouble looking her in the eyes.

"Look, Nick, just so know, you can turn the color of Merlot if you want but we're having this conversation. Now, you're crazy about this dude, right?"

"Yeah."

"Don't you think that might be what is freaking you out? Like that you are going to have to look yourself in the mirror and admit that you're at least kinda gay?"

"Obviously." Phoenix raised his eyebrows, as if to say get to the point.

"Don't you think that's what's so damned confusing? Not anything else? I mean," she said, "I think you know exactly what you want."

Phoenix looked at her blankly.

"Okay, lemme put it in small words your big old lawyer brain will understand. You've been chasing after the same guy your whole life. Why the hell would you stop now just because it's finally sunk into your damn spiky head _why_?"

"I...I..." Phoenix fumbled for a response but failed to come up with one. He glanced at Larry. Larry just looked at him expectantly. Phoenix sighed. "Okay, you're right. You're both right."

"Just invite me to the wedding, okay!" Larry slapped him on the shoulder.

"When did you get so smart, anyway?" Phoenix asked the girl, shrugging off Larry's hand.

"Please. Do you have any idea how many people come in expecting me to be able to solve their problems?" She snorted. "I'm better than a psychiatrist back here."

Phoenix laughed. "Okay, well then doctor. How much do we owe you for day?"

"Well you," she pointed at Phoenix, "the last round is on me. You," she pointed at Larry, "still have to pay."

"Thank you." Phoenix leaned over the bar and kissed the girl on the cheek. "See you soon, okay?"

Larry dug out his wallet and paid for his beer. "By the way, Katie, what time do you get off tonight?" Larry asked as they started to leave.

The bartender sent a sharp look in his direction. "Larry, for the thousandth time, we are not going out, not ever. Not in a box, not with a fox, not in a house, not with a mouse. You got it?"

Larry looked deflated for a moment and then appeared to have an idea. "How about a movie then?"

Katie groaned and made shooing motions with her hands. Phoenix waved a last goodbye and guided his friend out the door.

O O O

Back at his apartment, Phoenix made himself a sandwich for dinner and took out the Sunday paper, not having bothered to look at it much before. Scanning over the editorial section he noticed a letter under the heading, "Crusading Attorneys?" The letter read

_To the editor:  
In this era of activist judges, it is perhaps unsurprising that sentiments such as the right of the individual to perpetuate their own form of justice have trickled down the ranks. If Mr. Wright suspected foul play, why didn't he alert the police to the problem? I suspect our rising young attorney saw an opportunity for his own self-aggrandizement, too big to pass up, even at the expense of reasonable jurisprudence.  
L.M. Quincy  
Orange County_

Phoenix put the paper down, bemused and but oddly unaffected. It was somewhat amazing to him that just trying to do the right thing inadvertently turned the doer into the bad guy in someone's book. At this thought, a connection jumped to life in his head and on a whim Phoenix got up and went in search of a book.

On the way, he paused at his keyboard, which sat in the corner the living room. It had been a gift from his mother, years ago when he'd just started college. He'd never been good at it, even back when he'd had a reason to use the thing. Since then he'd forgotten most of what he had known. Absently, Phoenix flicked it on and plunked out a few notes.

Middle C, E, G. He hit the notes and a C major chord rang out. He shifted one finger. Middle C, E flat, G. The tenor of the chor changed. C minor.

Phoenix turned the instrument off. There wasn't much he could do with it and he doubted he would ever take the time to learn it. Still, he couldn't bring himself to give it away. Sentimental, he told himself, that's what he was.

Remembering why he'd come in the room in the first place, he went to his bookshelf and fumbled through the contents, telling himself that one of these days he really ought to organize the shelves. There were paperbacks, from some time ago when he'd had the time to read them, mixed in with books from law school, and the plays he'd studied before that.

Finding the collection of Ibsen plays he'd been thinking of, he sat on the floor in front of the bookcase and thumbed through them to "Enemy of the People." He'd played Dr. Stockmann once and at the moment it amused and intrigued him to think that where some people were concerned, he was a sort of real life version of the same. He spent a few minutes flipping through the text, reading a page here and there and mumbling out loud half remembered lines.

Phoenix propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his crossed arms, letting the book dangle from one hand. It was an odd feeling that his life had drifted from fiction into hard reality. Six years ago, one year ago, a month ago, even two weeks ago, would he have pictured himself where he was now? Everything changed so quickly. In that moment, it seemed as if he had suddenly become himself, twenty-four years old, with his own law firm, cases and a reputation that made the papers and on top of it all, that _thing_ he'd been waiting for, for so long with Miles Edgeworth was finally happening.

It didn't matter what Katie or Larry said, however, his relentless pursuit of Miles Edgeworth hadn't been entirely out of affection or idealized attraction. Miles had demonstrated a great truth to him once and shown him that one person really could save another, against all odds. When he'd seen Miles picture in the paper so many years later, he'd been reminded powerfully of that truth and how much he believed in it.

And then he'd met Mia.

Phoenix rested his forehead on his arms and closed his eyes. His chest felt tight and his heart ached softly at her memory. The woman had been a power to contend with. Young and brilliant, she'd been the embodiment of everything Phoenix had found in himself to believe in. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth had she lived long enough to take him there.

He felt an abrupt desire to tell Miles about her and about everything she'd meant to him. They had faced off in court ages ago, he knew, so Miles had known who she was. He'd also lost someone close himself, Phoenix mused sadly, so perhaps he'd be able to find a meaning in the incoherent ramblings that came out of Phoenix when he tried to talk about her.

Of course, he'd probably follow Miles Edgeworth to the ends of the earth, too, if he let him.

Eyes still shut, Phoenix smiled at the thought.

The ends of the earth, however, would have to wait. Right now there was another voice he wanted to hear, one which would take the edge off the unbidden memories of Mia.

Picking himself off the floor he went to get his cell phone. He dialed, waiting for the person on the other end of the line to pick up.

"Hey, Maya. How are you?"


	11. Chapter 11

On Monday morning Miles Edgeworth came into work late. This was unusual enough that by the time he arrived, at nearly ten o'clock, his secretary had begun fretting to the point that she was considering calling him at home to see if he required medical attention or even an ambulance.

Her concern went unexpressed, however, as Miles swept past her with a curt "good morning" and went straight to his office, without explanation. He was still taking off his coat when her ginger knocks came at his door.

"Mr. Edgeworth?" She poked her head around the corner of a cracked door.

"Yes?"

"These were dropped off for you first thing this morning." The timid mousy woman walked into the office, holding a very large file, closed but bursting at the seams and a single manila folder. "There's a case the acting DA wants you to look at, murder one. And you also got a notice from 9th circuit."

Miles sat down on the couch and opened his briefcase on the coffee table while she spoke.

"Put the notice on my desk. As for the case, send a message that I'm requesting that it be reassigned."

"Mr. Edgeworth?"

"I'm not taking any cases, right now." Miles began sifting through the papers in his briefcase and setting them out on the table as if he had just completely explained himself.

"Very well. Should I request that the acting DA not send you anymore cases for the time being?" The secretary asked cautiously.

Miles considered this for a moment. "No, we'll see what happens."

"Oh. Alright." The woman tried to make sense of this for a moment, her forehead twisting. Then she gave up placed the folder on his desk and then scuttled out of the room, pausing to poke her head in one last time before she left. "Did you want tea, Mr. Edgeworth?"

"Yes." Miles nodded. "That would be very nice. Thank you."

And then the prosecutor was alone with his papers and his thoughts. The rest of morning ran by, interrupted only by the arrival of tea and a few phone calls of little importance.

The file from the 9th circuit sat on his desk until mid-afternoon. When Miles finally opened the folder he did so almost ceremoniously in anticipation of whatever task was ahead of him. Unlike cases (which _technically_ he wasn't allowed to refuse on a whim, anyway, but never mind that for now, he thought) an order from the higher courts couldn't be refused. It was probably foolish, he told himself, that he had even waited so long to look at the notice.

There were only two sheets of paper in the folder, a report and a cover letter. Miles read the cover letter. Then he read the report. Then he read the cover letter again. And then he sat very still, trying to wrap his head around its meaning.

The letter was quite straight forward in its content. A case he had tried nearly two years ago was being appealed. Miles was not being asked to testify to the proceedings of the trial two years previously, nor was he being asked for a statement, as was usually the case. The letter stated it quite clearly, with no explanation. Attached was the record of appeal, officially stating that the case had in fact been accepted by the higher court and was currently under review.

Someone above Miles was giving him a message and it wasn't an entirely friendly one.

He spent the rest of the afternoon shuffling papers around and focusing on mindless administrative details, until he felt he could leave, having reasonably claimed to have worked a day.

He drove home in a rambling sort of way, avoiding the route he normally took. He thought as he drove, making his way down smaller side streets, letting the sun sink overhead, its light spreading in dull reds and oranges across the smoggy Los Angeles sky.

His mind kept turning back to the words he'd told Phoenix a week and a half previously, when Phoenix had tried to toast to their take down of Damon Gant. "If whoever is in charge- the commissioner, the mayor's office, city council, take your pick- thinks running a clean police department is for the best, well, good for us. If not..."

If not. If not. If not...

Had the notice of appeal today been a threat? What about the Bar review he and Phoenix were undergoing? The Bar Associate was supposed to be an independent body but Miles knew that, that label didn't guarantee that it was entirely true.

He smacked the dashboard in frustration. He was so tired of politics and games and the whole damn broken system. He'd never wanted to take on the system. His whole life, no matter what side of the bench he'd pictured himself on, Miles had just wanted to be a lawyer and a damned good one at that. But this, veiled warnings in notices of appeal and vaguely malicious investigations, this was what created the Von Karmas and Gants of the world and allowed them to fester.

Of course, Miles thought guiltily, it took being set up to take the fall for murder before I began to see that.

Miles sighed as he drove and stared blankly down the street in front of him. There were still good men and women in the system. There were men like Detective Gumshoe, to whom political shuffling was meaningless. To whom all that mattered was solving a mystery and redressing the wronged. Men who deserved Miles' respect.

Not being able to rationally avoid arriving home any longer, Miles guided his car on to his street then into the garage beneath his building. After sliding into his usual parking space, he took the keys out of the ignition and removed his seatbelt but made no move to get out of the vehicle. Instead, he crossed his arms on the steering wheel and leaned forward, propping his forehead on his forearms.

What did Phoenix think about all of this, he wondered. How much did he even notice or worry about, being as he was in private practice? Miles had never been friendly with a defense attorney before and therefore it had never really occurred to him to wonder much how the internal politics of the legal system looked to someone not directly employed by it.

He lifted his face up and, resting his chin on his arms, stared at the cement wall in front of the parked car. As much as he might have liked the man himself, the prosecutor intensely disliked the confusion that particular defense attorney brought with him. Miles Edgeworth hated confusion above almost all other feelings and refused to tolerate it for long.

Therefore, there in the front seat of his car, parked in his garage, and staring at the wall, he decided to attack the situation with logic:

_Givens: _Miles found Phoenix's company to be enjoyable. Miles respected him both for his intelligence and for his moral compass. Miles was finding him increasingly attractive. Since their reacquaintance, Phoenix had blatantly wanted some sort of personal relationship with Miles.

_Questions: _Did Phoenix get sexually involved with men? What sort of a relationship did Miles want to get into? What sort of a relationship was Miles capable of getting himself into?

_Evidence and arguments:_ Phoenix had, at certain points during dinner on Saturday, looked at Miles in a way that could only suggest lust, even if he'd been trying vainly to cover it up. He was, however, a bit too easy to tease, which lent credence to the idea that attraction to a man might be rather new to him. In the end, it could go either way, Miles decided.

As for himself, Miles could be loyal and very fond of those who lived up to his standards, in one regard or another. He was also comfortable enough with himself sexually and open to that sort of relationship, in a limited way. But when he tried to combine either element with Phoenix, the other wouldn't work. He honestly wouldn't mind continuing a friendship with Phoenix but that might be difficult if there continued to be sexual tension. On the other hand, the entrance of sex could easily, and probably would, mean the end of the friendship.

What of the third question then? He remembered his powerful desire to see Phoenix the week before and that small voice on the edge of his thoughts whispered the phrase "more than friends," a middle school sing-songy way. Miles stomach tightened and his eyes narrowed, focusing on the rough concrete in front of him with a sudden intensity. Now that was a laughable idea.

Miles pushed on the steering wheel with his hands, forcing his back against the car seat, sat up straight and exhaled deeply. Don't let your thoughts wander, he told himself. Finish the analysis.

So, based on the given facts, the evidence gathered, and the arguments presented, what was his conclusion?

His concluded that Phoenix had beautiful, enormous blue eyes set in a broad but handsome face. He concluded that when he could make Phoenix laugh he felt a bit lighter, as if some weight he was always unaware of until that moment was lifted from his shoulders. He concluded that Phoenix had smelled delicious and warm in that instant when he had kissed him on the cheek just two days ago.

He concluded that he'd just spent the last half an hour of his life sitting in parking garage thinking about the man.

"Christ, Miles," he said out loud, his voice filled with disgust. "What are you, some kind of love-struck teenager?" He caught a glance of himself in the rear view mirror. "Knock it off," he ordered himself.

Grabbing his briefcase, he got out of the vehicle and slammed the car door shut. Cursing at himself softly for taking his anger out on his precious sports car, he walked towards the elevator, as angry at himself as he was at the rest of the world.

O O O

As of Wednesday afternoon Phoenix felt very safe in the assumption that he was having a good week. He felt a little more bold and a lot less worried following his conversation with his friends on Sunday. He hadn't heard a word from the Bar Association, which he assumed to be good news. And, after a pair of meetings earlier in the week, he had two new cases to consider for appeal.

As he gained more experience as an attorney, Phoenix was finding that he was rather fond of working on appeals. Being able to review a case and read the filed reports before making a decision on whether or not to accept the case was a rare luxury and he appreciated having the time to think over the facts.

He'd been in such a good mood that morning that he'd gone out and treated himself to a new coffee maker, deciding he deserved not to have to subject himself to the sludge that came out of the old one.

He was sitting at his desk carefully going over an evidence list and comparing it to the trial report when the phone rang.

"Wright and Co. Law Office."

"May I speak to Mr. Wright, please?" A pleasant and vaguely familiar female voice came through the line.

"Speaking."

"Mr. Wright, this is Patricia Reiner from the Bar Association."

"Ah, hello, Ms. Reiner." Phoenix felt his stomach drop.

"I was calling to see if we could schedule an appointment between you, myself and a couple of the colleagues at the Bar."

"Am I being accused of something now?"

"No, not really. We just need to have a talk with you, to finish up the investigation."

"I see." That phrase "not really" bothered him.

"Can you be at our offices at 2:30 tomorrow?"

"Let me look at my schedule." There was nothing on Phoenix's schedule for the next day but he felt he ought to at least pretend. "Yes, I can be there."

"Wonderful. We'll see you tomorrow then."

"See you tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mr. Wright. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Phoenix hung up the phone and immediately began replaying the conversation in his mind. Perhaps it all really was a formality, in which case he had nothing to worry about. Although, perhaps it was something else, although for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. No matter what it looked like, the fact of the matter was that Phoenix had done nothing remotely unethical that the Bar could accuse him of.

Phoenix was still buried deep in thought when the phone rang again a few minutes later. It rang three times before he collected his mind enough to answer it.

"Wright and Co. Law Office."

"Wright, it's Edgeworth."

"Edgeworth."

"Did you receive a call from the State Bar this afternoon?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"Do you have a moment this afternoon? I think we should talk."

"Yeah, sure."

"Good, I'll be there in twenty minutes. Remind me of the address to your office."

Phoenix gave it to him in a daze. If Miles Edgeworth was rushing over to his office, something must be up.

His heart thumped a little involuntarily. Miles Edgeworth was rushing over to his office.

O O O

True to his word, Miles arrived almost exactly twenty minutes after he got off the phone with Phoenix.

He entered the office at the same moment that Phoenix was walking out of his private office space in the back. Both men paused on opposite sides of the room.

"Hi." Phoenix said awkwardly.

"Hello." Edgeworth responded with similar awkwardness.

A not unpleasant heaviness hung in the air between them.

"Uh, have a seat." Phoenix broke the spell, gesturing at the couch in the office's reception area. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Thank you. Yes, I'll take one." Miles sat graciously on the couch.

"Good choice." Phoenix said going into the break room. "I just got a new coffee maker this morning."

"What happened to the old one, if I may ask?"

"Uh... Maya happened and beyond that I don't think I really want to know." Phoenix laughed as he pulled a pair of mugs out of the cupboard.

"How do you take it?"

"Milk, no sugar."

Phoenix poured coffee for them both and came back out into the reception area.

"You know," he said, handing Miles his cup and sitting down across from him. "I like my coffee like I like my women... with a spoon in them."

Miles raised an eyebrow.

"It's a play on an old joke? I like my coffee like I like my women..." Feeling the defeat of a bit of humor irretrievably lost Phoenix gave up on trying to explain. "So, what's this all about?" He said, abruptly changing the subject.

"Well, I was wondering what you thought of tomorrow's meeting with the Bar." Miles put his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it while he spoke. "I am correct in assuming that they asked you for a meeting?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice anything odd about that?"

"Only that I have no idea what's going on- as usual, I guess." Phoenix smiled weakly.

"I think it has something to do with this." Miles took out three manila folders and handed them to Phoenix. He then waited patiently while Phoenix opened them and read the contents in each one.

"Okay, so three of your old cases are being appealed. I don't think I get the connection."

"Did you look at the cover letters?"

"Yeah, they just say that they don't need you to testify about the initial proceedings. Is that odd?"

"More than a little." Miles took the folders and their contents back from Phoenix. "In fact, this is the first time in my life I've received a notice like this. I got one on Monday and two today."

Phoenix rubbed his chin as he tried to understand.

"You think someone's trying to tell you something?"

"Yes. I think we managed to upset someone very badly and whoever it is, would like to send me a rather large warning, so to speak."

"And you think that the meetings tomorrow have something to do with that?"

"Wright," Miles leaned back, one arm stretched out over the back of the couch. "What time is your meeting?"

"Two-thirty."

Miles scowled. "I was afraid of that."

"What?"

"I'm supposed to meet with them at three-thirty. I imagine they'll try to lever something you've said against me."

"That's not fair!" Phoenix burst out, one hand landing sharply on the table.

Miles shrugged, seemingly resigned.

"We'll call them and request a meeting together."

"Oh, that won't look suspicious." Miles said with dry sarcasm.

"I'm serious, if they were willing to send that Reiner woman to talk to us both at the same time..."

"That was a coincidence, Wright." Edgeworth cut in.

"Still, she seemed to have no problem with it. And if they had no problem with it then, they will have no problem with it now."

"I hardly think it works that way."

"It doesn't matter if it works that way. I'll argue that way." Phoenix was growing increasingly frustrated at the resigned manner of the other man. "You know as well as I do that how something's argued means a great deal."

"Fine. For your sake, I go with this and I say that we'd rather a joint meeting, what good will that do?" Miles turned his hands palms up and shook his head in a familiar gesture. "They can still turn things around on me afterwards, even if you're there during the meeting."

"But there's less of a chance that they'll be able to do so."

"Wright," Miles said leaning forward and speaking softly. "There's little we can do at this point, I just wanted you to be aware..."

"I'm not going to be just aware!" Phoenix was incensed now. "Goddamn it, Edgeworth, you're a good prosecutor and a good man. Yes, I'll concede that I don't approve of some of the tactics you've used in the past but hell if I am going to let someone punish you when, without a doubt, you did the right thing."

Phoenix glanced away, too upset to look at Miles for his reaction. For a time, neither man spoke.

"You know," Miles said finally, as he sipped distractedly at his coffee. "I've never been able to figure out where this faith in me that you have comes from."

Phoenix glanced at him sideways but said nothing.

"Still," Miles sighed. "If you want to try, I suppose we may as well."

Phoenix digested this statement for a moment. "So... can I take it to mean that you'll trust me?"

"Yes," Miles spoke coolly but with sincerity. "I trust you." His eyes stayed locked on Phoenix's and for a moment Phoenix felt his heart pound and skip a beat.

"Good. One moment."

Phoenix got up and walked into his office. Miles could him speaking to someone else, arguing and finally being extremely polite. A few minutes later he was leaning on the doorway, smiling again.

"Well, it seems we split the difference. You and I have a date with the Bar Association at three o'clock."

"Well then." Miles stood up and, walking over to Phoenix, held out a hand. Phoenix took it and shook it briefly. "Let's hope for one of those... what do you call them? Turnabouts?" He smiled lightly at other man.

"Yeah, one of those."

Phoenix smiled back, realizing their hands were still clasped and neither man was letting go.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thanks as always for the reviews, encouragement, favs, and so on. I haven't been as good at responding to reviews as I like to be this week, thanks to a touch of the flu, but I wanted to let you all know that you're all appreciated. I can't even begin to tell you how delightful it is to me to know that other people are enjoying this story with me._

* * *

The building that housed the Bar Association offices was an intimidating one. Unlike the architecture of the courthouse, which radiated a sense of grace and authority with its neo-classical steps and columns, this building was squat and gray, with an illiberal number of windows and gave off nothing so much as a sense of the grim and oppressive. It looked for all the world as if it had been designed by a depressed _apparatchik_ in an earlier era.

Phoenix stood in front of the building missing the stately presence of the courthouse. It gave him a feeling of the officious and a sense of pleasant solemnity to walk up those steps before he presented an argument. He felt none of that now. Instead he stood on the front steps sweating, despite the chill of late February, and trying to desperately to summon up a feeling of preparedness.

Slightly more than a year ago, he'd stood in front of the same building, sweating and trying to think, the thick feeling of panic swelling in his throat. He'd been there to take the bar exam, and hadn't been much more than a bundle of nerves vainly trying to run through every case name, law and precedent he'd learned before finally entering the building. His lips had been moving as he mumbled, one hand on the railing, staring at the door.

Then he had felt a hand on his shoulder and stopped.

"Phoenix." The voice had been kind and feminine but commanding. Phoenix had turned around to confront the speaker. "You know your stuff, now just go in there and believe in yourself, okay?" Mia had said.

"Got it, chief."

"And when you pass the bar, you'll come and work for me as a real attorney, right? Be the Co. in Fey and Co?" She had smiled at him while she asked this.

Phoenix remembered smiling back.

"You bet I will."

"Wright." A baritone voice shattered the memory, bringing Phoenix back to the present where he was leaning back on the railing by the front door.

"Edgeworth," he said not moving from his spot.

"What were you thinking about just now?" Miles asked curiously, leaning on the rail next to Phoenix.

Phoenix opened his mouth but in that moment his memory of Mia seemed too private and precious to be exposed to the world.

"Nothing," he said.

"I hope you have more on your mind than nothing, today." Miles said lightly.

Phoenix shrugged and glanced at the man next to him. "You know, this might all _be_ nothing. This could just be a formality."

"You don't honestly believe that do you?" Miles raised an eyebrow.

"No." Phoenix admitted. "But it was nice to hope for, for a moment." Phoenix rubbed his hands together in the cold, breathing softly on his bare fingers to warm them. "You know, I can't believe that it's only been a year since I took the bar. So much has happened, it feels like so long ago."

"Wait until it's been five years," Miles said, gazing at the overcast sky. "Then it feels like a lifetime."

The wind chose that moment to rattle through what few winter-naked trees stood in front of the offices and the high gray clouds shifted in response to the sudden gust, more fully blocking what little sun had dared to show its face that afternoon.

Phoenix shivered and glanced at his watch. "Ten to three. Should we go in?"

"Are you always early when you're nervous?" Miles asked.

"Who says I'm nervous?"

"You look you did the first time I saw you in court."

"Hey, I won didn't I?" Phoenix retorted. After everything they'd been through, it chafed a little when Miles tried to treat him like a rookie. "Besides, I have a good feeling that we're going to win again today."

"We're going to win again?" Miles repeated blankly.

"Yeah. When the good guys are declared not guilty everyone wins, right?" Phoenix smiled, trying vainly to pretend that the words didn't sound juvenile even to him.

"Sure," said Miles, holding open the front door. "Let's just go with that."

O O O

Twenty minutes later, they sat in an austere conference room, across a long heavy oak table from Patricia Reiner and two older men in gray suits named Mr. O'Neil and Mr. Richards. Both Mr. O'Neil and Mr. Richards were past middle age, round, and balding with sharp looks and red noses. In fact, Phoenix noted to himself, if it were not for the fact that the former was white and the latter black, Phoenix would have had a difficult time telling the two a part. Even with the difference in race, it seemed difficult.

Any thoughts that might have taken the comparison to the comedic, however, were stifled by how sheerly imposing both men were. They held themselves, for lack of a better description, like old lawyers; canny, self-assured, and ready to manipulate everything presented in front of them. Even Patricia Reiner's false friendliness had taken on an extra edge and while everyone gathered was polite, Phoenix had felt under attack since he'd walked through the door.

"Mr. Wright, Mr. Edgeworth, if we can cut to the chase as to why we asked you to be here, I'm sure we'd all appreciate it." O'Neil spoke slowly, making his audience wait for each word, yet forbidding them to interrupt. "We are after all, all busy people." He paused. "If that's alright with you, of course."

Phoenix felt that some sort of particular reply was being ferreted from him and he was grateful when Miles responded first.

"I believe you'll find we're equally anxious to find out what this meeting is all about."

"Well, then." Mr. Richards said. "We've been over your reports and the transcript of the trial."

"And we want to say again that you're not officially under investigation," Reiner cut in. It was unnerving the way the three of them seemed to take turns speaking, the matching men of opposing colors and ever pressing age and the ageless woman whose colors seemed to be made only of paints.

"Then why are we here?" Phoenix spoke deliberately. He had been waiting for this statement.

"Well, that's what we're about to bring up," Reiner said, her voice full of that condescending sweetness.

"No, I mean, the Bar isn't allowed to officially investigate an attorney in good standing, on either side of the bench, without specifically holding him or her accountable for a breech of ethical conduct."

"I think we have made it quite plain that you are not officially being investigated. In fact, my dear colleague has just said as much." O'Neil said, his eyes, made colorless with age, narrowing as he spoke.

Phoenix shook his head. "No. I don't think that's quite right."

"Oh?" Richards said, one finger tapping the table. "We're just having a casual meeting here. Trying to make sure that no one gets the wrong impression."

"And I think that's exactly what you're trying to do. Make the wrong impression, that is." Phoenix opened his briefcase and pulled out a sheet of paper, he placing it before the men and woman in front of him. "Would one of you care to read that?"

"It's a page of the operating bylaws of the Bar, as held accountable by the State of California." Reiner said shortly.

"Mr. Wright, we're not here for courtroom theatrics." O'Neil said.

"Neither am I." Phoenix picked up the piece of paper again and tapped it as he held it. "This states that if any attorney is under investigation for breech of ethical conduct, they must be informed by Bar."

"I don't need to remind you, Mr. Wright, that for the thousandth time, no one has said that you are under investigation." Richards leaned forward and Phoenix saw something slightly dangerous in his eyes.

"Exactly my point, sir." Phoenix said coldly.

"Well, I hope you plan to explain this point because, I for one, do not appreciate having my time wasted." O'Neil folded his hands neatly in front of himself on the table. Good Phoenix, thought. He's hostile. I'm on the right track.

"Well, you seem to have obtained copies of our reports as soon as they were filed, as well as a transcription of the trial from the court reporter."

"As I'm sure your friend over here can remind you," Reiner gestured a single manicured hand towards Miles, "those things are a matter of public record."

"Yes and no." Phoenix glanced at Miles. The other man was holding him steady with those cool grey eyes. He said nothing, however, simply lifting his chin as if to say, go on, finish the argument. "While that information may be a matter of public record, it is not released as such until either all parties involved have either finished the appeals process or accepted sentencing and the matter is considered closed."

"Now, Mr. Wright, have you forgotten that your own client was declared not guilty?" There was a slight mocking tone in Richards' voice as he spoke. "That closes the matter, as well."

Phoenix shook his head again. "So it would appear but that's not really the way it works." He was building up steam now and the feeling of a solid argument was bubbling eagerly behind his lips. He could see them, the two men and the woman, ready to crack. All he had to do was present the right thing, press them the right way and it would all be over. "In this case, two parties involved continued to be involved in the criminal justice system. And while Ms. Skye may have been sentenced last week for conspiracy..." Phoenix trailed off, a deliberate glint twinkling in his eye. "I assume you read the paper yesterday morning? That Damon Gant is appealing his case, hoping to work out a lighter sentence? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what his basis for appeal _is_ but I do know he's getting one."

The room echoed eerily with the sounds of Reiner's rounded nails tapping on the thick wood of the conference table and the heavy breathing of the two men, their suit jackets straining under the heaving effort of their displeasure.

"I think what my unfortunately verbose associate is trying to say," Miles finally said, "is that in order for you to have the very reports you claim to have in front of you, we must be officially under investigation, contrary to your claim."

"Exactly." Phoenix nodded. "Which makes me wonder why you would repeatedly inform us that we are not."

The reaction was not at all what Phoenix had expected. At this point in a trial, contradictions exposed, up against a wall, a witness would crack and bare the truth, or hedge again and try and close the gaps in his own story. Instead, Reiner kept tapping. O'Neil sat silently, his hands still folded on the table top. Most disconcerting of all, however, was Richards, who smiled.

"I believed you were informed when Ms. Reiner happened to disturb you in the middle of, what was from what I hear, a very rousing discussion about hockey." The way Richards chewed the word 'hockey' it sounded like a condemnation. "As for why we took pains to tell you that you're not officially under investigation, it's simply that you're not any more, because you're not in any sort of trouble. There was no evidence of collaboration found and therefore no breech of ethical conduct."

Richards took a handkerchief out of his pocked and gently dabbed at the beads of sweat appearing on the top of his bald head. Phoenix was reminded briefly of Marvin Grossberg, who was himself lucky enough to have retained his hair, and found himself wondering if that uncomfortable round state was the unfortunately fate of all aging attorneys.

"Neither of you boys have been practicing law very long, I know," Richards said. Miles stiffened slightly at this and Richards gestured toward him vaguely with the white cloth as he stuffed it back in his pocket. "Oh, I know you think you've been in this game for a long time, mister former prodigy and I know you've managed to make quite a name for yourself while you've been in it. But you're still young and wet behind the ears, both of you. So I'm going to tell you this, before you get yourselves further into trouble. Be careful with that buddy act you two have got going, you hear?" He turned to the doughy man beside him. "You know, they wouldn't even come in here unless they could hold each other's hands." O'Neil grunted and shook his head.

"Not everyone is happy with you boys, as I am sure you've gathered." O'Neil spoke again in that painfully deliberate way of his. Phoenix felt himself wanting to shift impatiently as the man went on but he fought the urge, steeling his muscles and not allowing himself to move an inch.

"You've caused some people quite a bite of inconvenience. Now, don't get me wrong," O'Neil raised his plump, pale hands in front of himself in a small gesture of defense and then folded them again. "No one is saying that the former high prosecutor and former chief of police shouldn't be held accountable for what they did. Just that there proper channels to go through for that sort of thing. Channels that might be more beneficial than making a public spectacle out of a trial."

"Just know, for the future, we'll be keeping an eye on you." Reiner smiled coldly and her voice imitated kindness in an almost threatening way. "Both of you," she said to Phoenix and he a chill rise up his back in response.

It could have been just him, her eyes said. But you came in here with him and so now this is a warning for you, too.

O O O

As they left the Bar Association offices Miles was awash with fury at the man walking next to him. His mouth however, stayed tightly shut until they walked through the front door and into the dull, gray cold of the Southern Californian winter.

As soon as they were outside, however, he turned on Phoenix. "Why did you pull that little stunt asking me to 'trust you,' yesterday, when you clearly walked in there with an argument up your sleeve?" He demanded. "Why the hell did you tell me what you were planning to do in there?"

"Come on, Edgeworth," Phoenix snapped back, to Miles' surprise. "Like you would have let me go through with it, if you knew what I was going to say."

"Why wouldn't I? At least I wouldn't have been walking in there blind, not knowing you were going to start slinging around bylaws like Perry Mason at a co-op meeting!"

"Why?" Phoenix's face was almost slack with disbelief and Miles had an irrational urge to grab him and shake him until the look disappeared. "Think, Edgeworth. Just think for a moment."

Miles had half a mind to turn on one heel and walk away from the man in front of him but instead he gritted his teeth and forced himself to think, as instructed. Slowly, the logic he was meant to understand worked itself out in his head and a heavy realization settled on his shoulders.

"That was all a bluff in there, wasn't it Wright?" Miles felt his knees go slightly weak and leaned again on the railing by the front door. "They have a loophole a mile wide. They have to tell us that we're being investigated but it never says when. There's no time line for it. They could have lied to our faces up until we were officially brought in for a hearing. They can call us for 'friendly meetings' and say it was all just a chat between colleagues until they actually set up a hearing. We might be able to challenge their behavior later by going to the National Bar but there wouldn't be a shred of ink to stand on, just the accusation they were _mean_, like a pair of slighted school boys..."

Phoenix nodded and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "They were pretty careful with their scare tactics. The only thing I was banking on was that they weren't actually going to charge us with anything. So, I called their bluff with one of my own. The only thing we really had going for us was meeting with them together, so that they couldn't twist any part of my conversation with them against you."

"Wright." Miles looked at him incredulously. "That may have gotten me one step closer to being off the hook but now they'll be watching both of us."

"So?" Phoenix leaned on the rail next to Miles, their shoulders almost touching. "As long as you're okay, than it's fine. They can watch all they want." He met Miles' eyes with his own. "I'm not planning on doing anything unethical, how about you?" He said, half teasing.

Miles searched the blue eyes next to him trying desperately to understand. Phoenix really didn't care that he'd put himself in a more precarious position, so long as Miles was safer. Miles had never even dreamed of asking the other man to do such a thing but here he was again, playing the role of the white knight, trying for some unfathomable reason to save Miles from the world.

A powerful feeling welled up in Miles' chest and on an impulse he cupped the side of Phoenix's face with one hand and whispered in his other ear, their cheeks gently touching.

"Bei mir bist du schön."

"German, right?" Phoenix swallowed heavily as Miles pulled away. "That didn't sound angry at all."

"It wasn't." Miles' lips turned up slightly as he straightened himself out. "Should I understand that you still need me to save you from the wrath of Maya Fey?"

"Oh, yeah. Um the DVD. Come over at eight tomorrow?"

"I'll see you then, Wright." And with a short wave, the conversation, the afternoon's fiasco, all of it, faded into the background as Miles walked towards his car not sure if he was relieved or still angry or too tired to feel anything.

One thing he did know, though, he thought with a small smile to himself as he unlocked his car, was that for a man who could be recklessly brave when he felt it was being asked of him, it was certainly easy to make Phoenix Wright blush.


	13. Chapter 13

_Fluff time. Dang it._

* * *

Phoenix's apartment wasn't a mess, per se, it was just an apartment whose sole occupant was a single male. That rationalization, however, didn't do much to curb the small panic attack that welled up inside him when he came home from work on Friday and realized that while that particular idea sounded good in theory, in practice it just looked sloppy. There was a reason gay men had reputations as being fastidious, he thought glumly, and it came from worrying about having to impress men like Miles Edgeworth.

Tossing off his suit and pulling on a pair of jeans, Phoenix took a moment to debate between shirts- eventually having enough common sense to leave the t-shirt which displayed the Guinness logo and proudly marked the celebration of St. Patrick's Day 2014 and in favor of plain blue polo.

Satisfied that he looked passable for a movie at home, Phoenix turned his attention back to the apartment. The apartment, however, seemed bent on a sort of snarling revenge now that its occupant had recognized his normally exercised neglect. The dishes, stacked up in the sink, once washed, pointed out the piles of recycling needing to be sorted and taken out. Removing the built up stacks of junk mail, all but falling off the coffee table in the living room, only drew more attention to all the half-finished books and magazines that lay scattered around, waiting to be put away or, at the very least, neatly stacked. Bits of sticky blue toothpaste artfully decorated the bathroom sink and while he wiped up the mess, Phoenix despairingly noticed that three pairs of boxer shorts that lay crumpled on the floor, kicked to a corner by the shower.

After about an hour of this Phoenix finally gave up, decided that things were as Miles-ready as they were ever going to be and let himself collapse on the couch.

He glanced at the clock on the cable box. 7:23.

Now what, Phoenix thought. At least cleaning had been distracting. He felt a knot tie itself up in his stomach as stared at the green digital numbers. 7:24. 7:25.

He forced himself to lay down and not stare at the clock, crossing an arm over his eyes. For some reason an evening with Miles Edgeworth and the Pink Princess was already even more nerve-wracking than the meeting with the State Bar. Even more nerve-wracking than going to dinner the weekend before. Of course, Phoenix thought, then he'd just been embarrassed and confused. That had been a lifetime ago- before Miles had kissed him on the cheek, before Miles had whispered sweet things in German in his ear.

Phoenix smiled at the memory. Then frowned. Was this a date or wasn't it? No one had actually said anything but at this point that seemed where things were heading. Or, and here Phoenix's chest began to feel tight and his breath shortened, had he possibly somehow read everything really, really wrong? All the self-inspection and self-confrontation of the past week suddenly seemed like foolishness when cast in the harsh light of a single moment of paranoia.

The whole thing was insane, he complained to himself. These things were supposed to get easier when you got out of adolescence and college and moved into adulthood.

Weren't they?

Then again, Phoenix sat up and shook his head, his life certainly didn't work that way. From the day he had passed the bar everything had only become more complicated. Maybe it was the way adulthood really worked. Maybe it was just the path he'd taken and the consequences of his own decisions, decisions which Phoenix had never considered that radical but still seemed to get him into bizarre spots all the same.

Well, he consoled himself weakly, at least it wasn't boring.

Phoenix got up and walked into the kitchen where he idly wandered around, opening the refrigerator, closing it again, opening cupboards, closing them, opening the refrigerator again. He should probably eat something, he realized, but nothing seemed even remotely appetizing.

He felt like he was living in that moment just when one thinks that one might be kissed, extended into eternal minutes upon minutes, painful and exhilarating all at once.

The apartment buzzer rudely broke through his thoughts. Phoenix walked to the panel on his wall and pressed the intercom button.

"Hello?"

"It's Miles."

Phoenix buzzed the man in, in response. As he did so, the seconds ticking by all but stopped in their tracks.

If it came to that, he wondered, maybe tonight, maybe some other night, was he really ready to... with another man? His breath froze in his throat, caught on a vaguely virginal apprehension whose sudden violent appearance was born on the back of a single man.

A knock on the door brought him back to the present, where he was still just standing in his kitchen and time once again moved forward at its ordinary pace.

Opening the front door Phoenix was greeted by the sight of Miles Edgeworth in long gray jacket, a pocketless, button-down shirt, and jeans. Phoenix's mind froze in place. Miles wore jeans? Granted they seemed like nice jeans, really nice jeans in fact, probably some sort of special designer something or other, but Phoenix didn't really know anything about that...

His own thoughts trailed into nothingness as he looked back up and met Miles' eyes.

"Hi," he managed.

God, he looks good, Phoenix thought involuntarily.

"Are you going to let me in or should I make myself comfortable in the hall?" Miles asked drolly.

"Sorry, I blanked out for a minute. Come on in." Phoenix moved aside letting Miles in, then led him to the living room. "I don't have a coat closet so feel free to toss your jacket wherever."

Even in jeans, Miles seemed out of place in Phoenix's apartment. There was something about the way the man moved and held himself, something so terribly well put together about both his appearance and his demeanor, that the man himself seemed to clash with the very existence of the brown carpet and green curtains that bordered Phoenix's rented space.

As Miles folded his jacket and laid it on the back of a chair, he glanced around the room, seemingly taking stock of its inhabitant. It was almost a relief when his sights fell on the keyboard in the corner and a vaguely surprised look crossed his face.

"I didn't know you played the piano," he said walking over and tapping a key. He frowned when it failed to make a sound.

"Well, first of all," Phoenix said coming up behind Miles, "you have to turn it on." He reached around the other man and flipped a switched causing the board to light up. "And second of all, I really don't. I guess I could probably still pick out a melody if I really had to otherwise..." Phoenix moved his hand next to where Miles' still rested and plunked out a few painfully familiar notes. "Chopsticks is a about all you'll get from me."

Phoenix glanced over at Miles and noted with distinct pleasure that he wore that sort of half suppressed smile that graced his face when he found something amusing.

"Oh," Phoenix walked over to the TV and picking up _The Pink Princess: Neo-Tokyo A Go-Go!_ handed the movie to Miles. "Here's the grand prize, by the way."

Miles turned the DVD case over almost ceremoniously in his hands, obviously enamored with its contents. Phoenix watched his barely disguised childlike pleasure with amusement.

"Miles, you really are a nerd underneath it all, aren't you."

"Very funny, Wright." Miles' features quickly returned to their ordinary mask

"Hey, did I ever say I minded?" Phoenix shrugged and walked towards the kitchen. "I got a bottle of wine. Do you want some? I figured I'd make some popcorn to and we can do this whole movie thing right."

"Sounds fine."

"You can go ahead and stick the DVD in, if you want." Phoenix gestured at the TV and retreated into the kitchen. The wine had been a last minute idea. He'd gone to pick up some beer and then, remembering Miles preferences, gone to get a bottle of Pinot instead.

He allowed himself one last brief moment to lean on the counter and ask himself if he was really being an idiot. He breathed in sharply.

Too late to wonder about that now, he told himself.

When he returned to the living room a few minutes later, precariously trying to carry two glasses, an open bottle of wine, and a bowl full of microwave popcorn, Miles was seated on the couch, happily flicking through the DVD menu. He quickly noticed Phoenix, however, and rushed over to meet the overloaded man.

"For crying out loud, you're not a circus act. You could have asked me to give you a hand." He admonished, relieving Phoenix of the pair of glasses.

"Thanks."

Once everything was set on the coffee table without being dropped and shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor Phoenix poured the wine into the two stout glass tumblers.

"Sorry, I don't have any wine glasses."

"That's alright. I expected plastic Steel Samurai glasses."

"Hilarious." Phoenix said dryly. "Besides, you're the fan here, not me."

Miles made a noncommital noise and picked up a glass of wine.

"So," said Phoenix picking up his own glass. "What should we toast to?"

"Wright, do you insist on toasting every single time you sit down for drink?"

"Why not?" Phoenix laughed. "How about a toast to toasts?"

"You are ridiculous." Miles said. He raised his glass, anyway and let it clink against Phoenix's. Miles sipped the wine and then examined the contents critically for a moment before picking up the bottle to glance at the label.

Please let it be okay, please let it be okay, Phoenix chanted in his mind.

"It's not bad." Miles nodded. Phoenix began to breathe again. Miles looked at him curiously, apparently amused that his reaction had been so closely watched. Phoenix felt an urge to glance away but instead he held the other man's eyes in his own, almost challenging the other man to somehow acknowledge how closely they wer paying attention to each other.

Miles looked away first. "Care to share the popcorn?" He indicated the bowl on the far side of the coffee table from him.

Suddenly Phoenix was hit by an inspiration both childishly cruel and delightful at once. Before he could stop himself he'd left the bowl where it was and was holding out an open hand with a few popped kernels in it.

Miles arched an eyebrow.

"Revenge for the creme brulee." Phoenix said simply.

Miles smirked, then shrugged, seeming to accept his fate. Rather than simply taking the popcorn from Phoenix's hand, however, the prosecutor chose to up the ante. Cradling Phoenix's hand in his own, he bent forward and gracefully picked up the popcorn, one piece at a time, his tongue flicking against Phoenix's palm as he did so.

Phoenix shuddered lightly and strained to keep his hand still.

It took Miles just a moment to consume the few kernels sitting in Phoenix palm. Then, still cradling Phoenix's hand, he gently raised it and pressed the flat of Phoenix's hand against his lips.

When Miles again met Phoenix's eyes with his own, Phoenix allowed himself to move of his own will and gently stroked the other man's cheek with the back of his fingers. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. The room seemed to have gone completely silent, despite the DVD menu playing on loop in the background.

Miles' gaze remained locked on his and he felt lost in those gray eyes. His hand remained on Miles's cheek and the hand that had held Phoenix's traveled up his arm. He felt himself begin to lean forward...

And the phone rang.

Phoenix spent the next hour cursing himself for answering it.

"Hi, Maya." Phoenix shot Miles a pleadingly apologetic look as he walked into the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear.

"So, Nick, did you watch it? Was it awesome?" The girl's excited voice came flew at him at top speed.

"No, Maya, I hadn't even started it." Phoenix sighed in exasperation.

"But you promised you'd watch it tonight!" She protested.

"Well, I was just about to start it," he said crossly.

"Nick, are you okay? You're acting all grumpy." A tinge of worry entered Maya's voice. "Have you been sick? Did you take a really hard case? You always get grouchy when you can't figure a case out."

Phoenix glanced at the couch and the man sitting there. Christ, he'd been two seconds from getting kissed and he had to jump up like Pavlov's puppy at the theme to the Steel Samurai. He made a quick mental calculation as to whether or not it was worth upsetting Maya to get back there as quickly as possible.

"I'm fine, Maya. Look, I've got to go."

"Is everything okay?" The bubbly quality had left her voice and had been replaced by replaced by her own unique brand of anxiety.

"Everything is fine. I just have to go now."

"Alright." She didn't sound convinced.

"Talk to you soon."

"Okay. I'll talk to you soon."

Phoenix hung up the phone, wondering if there was a special hell for grown men who let perfectly well-meaning teenage girls worry themselves for no reason.

"Sorry." Phoenix apologized, returning to the couch. He gave Miles a lame smile and the man nodded, sipping his wine, making no motion to move from where he was.

"I suggest," the grey-eyed man said cooly, "that we start the movie before you have a seventeen year old girl angrily beating down your door."

"She's eighteen," Phoenix protested, feeling guilty that he didn't rise more adamantly to her defense.

The movie made little sense to Phoenix and he spent little energy trying to follow it. Instead, he spent the entire hour and twenty minutes painfully aware of the space between himself and the man on the other side of the couch. Every motion, every sip of wine, every handful of popcorn meant something and that something was always... nothing. The moment was gone and Phoenix was unsure of how to bridge the yawning gulf that had appeared between them.

As soon as the final battle had been won, all was put to right, and the credits began to roll Phoenix turned his attention back to Miles.

"Okay, I have to know," he said pouring out the last of the wine into both their glasses. "Why do you like this stuff so much? I mean, I get that it's fun but you just don't strike me as the type." Phoenix half-smiled at the other man. "I don't care how many action figures you had as a kid."

"You're making fun of me."

"No, no! Not at all! Seriously, I want to know." Phoenix spoke earnestly and Miles gave in with a sigh.

"Well, I guess," he said running a finger across his lips thoughtfully, "my question is what do you mean by that. That I don't strike you as 'the type,' as you put it."

"Well," Phoenix's mind worked to put into words exactly what he'd meant. "I guess what I mean, is that you don't strike me as the type to be into pop culture stuff. You strike me as much more of a high culture, classical music and paintings kind of guy."

"To be honest, I think it's a little silly to put up all these barriers, this is high culture, this is low. You never know how it'll all pan out when we're dead and gone. I'm not saying that this," Miles gestured at the television screen, "is great art by any stretch of the imagination, just that... Well, you know, Verdi was pop culture at one point."

"Really?" Somehow Phoenix had gotten Miles on to a subject that interested him, other than law, and it was oddly fascinating to watch.

"He was, I suppose you could say, a rock star in his day. After his operas people would chant his name and after they were forced into the street they would still chant it."

"Wow. I never really thought about it that way." Phoenix paused digging in his memory back to a time, seemingly long before the present, when he'd dove into this sort of thing. "Then again, I don't know much about opera. I saw a performance of _Tristan and Isolde _when I was in college and that was about it."

"Did you like it?" Miles asked, seemingly genuinely interested.

"Can I be honest?" Phoenix thought about trying to impress Miles but the conversation was really too relaxed for that. "I hated it," he said truthfully.

"Well, I'd say that's a good start then." Miles spoke as if he were divulging a delicious secret. "Listening to Wagner is like being hit over the head with a lead pipe repeatedly. An utterly unpleasant experience."

"Ha!" Phoenix laughed. "Well then, I'm glad I live up to your artistic standards."

"I wouldn't go that far." Miles teased. "Let's just say that yes, perhaps you can be taught."

"Gee, you flatter me. I tell you what. Lend me something good and we'll find out whether or not I'm a total philistine."

"I think I can manage that."

"When did you learn all this anyway?" The thought suddenly occurred to Phoenix to ask.

"I like to think I've received a reasonable education in my life on a number of subjects." Coming from Miles the statement almost sounded like modesty.

"Like after you left?" Phoenix pressed. So much of Miles' life was a mystery and if he could just crack this one door... "I know they weren't talking about any of this stuff where we went to school in Orange County."

"Yes. To a degree. You could say that things took a different turn." Miles face took on a less jovial tenor and his voice was more clipped as he spoke.

"That must have been hard." Phoenix said, trying to coax him into saying more.

"What?"

"I mean, everything just uprooting and changing like that."

"Listen, Wright," Miles' face became still, his eyes cold. "If I wanted to discuss the difficulties of my childhood, I'd hire a therapist, not sit here talking to you in what is rapidly becoming an increasingly annoying conversation."

Phoenix said nothing in response but simply sat for a time watching Miles' face as he gazed icily across the room. His features were impassive but his eyes were fierce and Phoenix was violently reminded of why some people found him terrifying in his silences.

There was, however, no terror in the blue-eyed man.

For the past week it had seemed to Phoenix as if there were a wire inside of him steadily tightening every time he looked at Miles. In that moment one end of the wire finally snapped, and Phoenix found himself hurtling towards the other man at a thousand miles an hour, as he leaned over the other man's lap and crushed their lips together.

The kiss was, at the start, incredibly awkward. Neither man moved, Miles startled by the suddenness of the gesture and Phoenix so caught in his own bravery that he seemed unsure of what to do once his goal had been met.

The awkward stiffness dissipated quickly, though, as Miles' instincts overcame his surprise and he let his lips move against Phoenix's, reaching up to cup the other man's face as he did so. They stayed this way for some time, almost innocent in their kisses, mouths moving against each other, barely opening, yet no less intoxicating in their near chastity.

When their lips finally parted, Phoenix stayed leaning over Miles' lap, his hands on either side of the man's thighs and Miles hands stayed at their post, holding Phoenix's face. They breathed deeply, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together.

It was Miles who eventually broke the breathy silence. His voice was cracking, quiet and slow. "Phoenix, I don't know if this..."

Phoenix kissed him again before he had a chance to finish the sentence. He felt like he was walking on the edge of some very tall building and if he took even a moment to look down, to think of what he was doing, he was sure to fall.

This time the kiss was passionate, open mouthed and full of naked desire. Miles brought his hands down from Phoenix's face and guided the other man's arms back, angling his body as he did so to bring both men into more complete contact on the couch. Tongues and lips found their way away from mouths and trickled down chins and necks before finding their way back to each other again. Hands, no longer content to stay still, ran down arms and backs and chests, pushing the boundaries of their explorations with each caress.

Phoenix was reminded strikingly of being a teenager, pressed against another body for the first time, trying desperately to learn every new sensation. A man's chest feel like this, subtle in its contours and oddly inviting. A man's back feels like this, strong and muscular, curving towards the center. A man's arms feel like this, the muscles flexing deliciously as that man moves. All at once he was hungry to explore it all, to feel as much as he could. His hand drifted down Miles' chest and he let his fingers give a delightful exploratory brush over the rough front of the other man's jeans.

To his surprise Miles distanced himself from Phoenix and took both of Phoenix's hands in his, holding them between them.

"Phoenix," he said breathlessly. "I can't believe you're making me be the good guy." Miles looked at their hands as he spoke, as if he wasn't sure he could look Phoenix in the face. "I don't think this is such a good idea."

Phoenix felt an iron weight inside himself, as if his heart had just dropped to the bottom of his stomach.

"What?" He managed to get out.

"This. I've given this a lot of thought and if we have sex than it could be for the worst." Miles swallowed as if the confession were painful to make. "You're one of the few people I think I could trust and I don't know if want to give that up."

Miles finally met Phoenix's eyes and Phoenix had the feeling that he should say something like 'it's okay,' maybe or 'yeah, let's stay friends.'

He couldn't bring himself to say either. Whatever tall building he'd felt as though he'd been walking on earlier had suddenly shaken and thrown him from the ledge. He was falling, just falling.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." Phoenix's mind barely registered the small note of pleading in Miles' voice. Then Miles let his hands go. "I should go." Miles got up off the couch suddenly and went to get his coat.

Phoenix still sat on the couch trying to understand exactly what was happening. Katie's voice drifted back to him. _You've been chasing after the same guy your whole life._

Little words his big old lawyer brain could understand.

No. No way in hell was he going to give up now.

Phoenix got up and strode to the front door, blocking Miles before he could leave.

"Stop."

Miles obeyed, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Will you just hear me out for a moment?"

Miles seemed to think about this and then straightened himself to his full height, arms-crossed across his chest. "Alright."

"Okay, um, here goes." The truth was, Phoenix had no words in mind for this situation. He clenched his fists and willed something clever to come out of his mouth.

"Look, I'll be the first to admit that I don't really know what this thing between us is but whatever's going on, I think I want to give it a shot." Miles looked at him blankly and Phoenix wiped his face with his hands and pressed his palms together tapping his lips with the ends of his fingers. "Okay, I am really not great at romance and obviously I'm even worse at it when it comes to you but here goes:" Phoenix took breath and the rest came out in a torrent, his eyes half-closed as he spoke. "It isn't just that I want to kiss you, although I do. I want to know what's going on in your head, what you think about. I want to be able to see you at the end of a long day. I want to know what happened in those fourteen years that I didn't know you. I..." Phoenix ran his hand through his hair and smacked the door in frustration. "Crap, I'm not doing this right. I sound like an awful romantic movie. I just..."

"I'll think about it." Miles interrupted, his voice soft but clear.

"You will?" This response left Phoenix dumbstruck.

"I... promise." Miles said hesitantly.

Phoenix smiled, relief and apprehension running through his system in equal measures. "No rush, okay? No pressure. Just... think."

Miles' gray eyes held his own, that steely quality long gone. He nodded slightly and then leaned in and kissed Phoenix lightly on the lips. "I should still probably go."

Phoenix nodded slowly. "Alright," he said, the air half knocked out of him as he spoke. "I'll see you soon?" The sentence was a genuine question, rather than a goodbye.

"Yes." Miles paused. "One way or another." There was one more soft kiss, which despite being brief and almost chaste, somehow lasted just as long as all the others.

"Goodnight, Phoenix."

"Goodnight, Miles."

And then he was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

_This chapter contains some profanity and moderate sexual content._

* * *

Warm and soft were the first ideas to flicker into the young man's mind as he woke that morning. Slowly coming to, it occurred to him that warm and soft were really only qualities belonging to the state of being comfortable and that the reason he was so comfortable was that he was currently burrowed in his very comfortable bed, underneath a very comfortable comforter. Even his toes were warm, he thought with a certain satisfaction.

Light streamed in, in scattered lines pushing their way through cracks between the curtains. He opened his eyes, gradually taking in this new sensation. Saturday. It was Saturday, his mind registered. That was why he had the distinct pleasure of waking up in such an enjoyably easy way.

As his mind put itself in order, images from the previous night's dreams danced in his head, leaving flittering impressions just beyond his finger-tips. One image in particular drifted through his head and the sleepy man stretched with a certain satisfaction as he recalled it. He'd dreamed that his hands had been roaming over a certain delightfully handsome man while he kissed him. The dream-memory was so vivid he could recall the phantom touch of the other man's lips and the caress of his hands on his body.

Wait a minute.

The waking man's mind did a quick loop back, snapping immediately into full consciousness.

Miles Edgeworth shoved the comforter away from his face, frowning with displeasure. Those weren't memories of any dream. The entire night previous came back to him in a rush. He had, in fact, made out with Phoenix Wright.

Miles glared at his toes, his stomach clenching and unclenching as thoughts and confusions circled around his head. Hadn't he decided that was a bad idea? He had but, if he was going to be honest with himself, he'd never really acted on that decision. Flirting with, teasing, just talking to Phoenix was too easy and felt too good. Then they'd almost kissed just before Maya called. Miles had tried to distance himself then, to get his head back in order. But then Phoenix had gone and kissed him anyway and damned but Miles hadn't had any self-control.

Bravo, Edgeworth. He told himself. If there was an award for sending disastrously mixed signals, you'd surely when the gold.

Pulling his hands behind his head, he absently studied his bedroom ceiling and thought back to Phoenix's little speech at the end of the evening. It had been charming, despite its awkwardness. Sweet even. Miles smiled a little in spite of himself. And what was so awful about what about what he wanted, anyway?

The answer came like a cold slap. What was so awful was that the person he was asking was Miles.

Miles thought back over his relationship with Phoenix in the past year. It had been strange the way all the anger, frustration, and rivalry that had defined the man for him had somehow ended up melting in the face of a childhood connection- a connection Miles hadn't been eager to acknowledge in the first place. Before this year Phoenix had become a memory of a phantom to him. Then that phantom, that stupid boy of a man, he thought bitterly, had suddenly appeared and been able to out-smart him, out-wit him, and had handed him the first defeat of his career.

It hadn't been long after that, that Miles' world had crashed and kept crashing. The lake, the murder. The sudden discovery that he hadn't killed his father, after all. And then the equally oppressive and terrifying guilt of now knowing that he'd spent his life following the man that had. That, that man he'd admired so intensely had born him no real affection and saw in Miles' existence simply a way to strike yet again at the already dead.

Phoenix had saved him, he thought heavily. And he was determined to keep saving him, if Thursday's performance was any indication. And all Miles was capable of doing in response was to break, bit by bit, with each new pressure.

Miles brow knit itself violently in unpleasant contemplation. The truth was Phoenix really had no idea what he was asking. That stupid, naive idiot, Miles cursed him in his head. He was dumb and blind. Foolish and living in a dream.

His stomach knotted and Miles felt the distinct urge to cry. For the first time since he'd been a teenager he wanted to fall into someone, to embrace them, to be embraced, to feel light and seeped in affection, to loose himself in thoughtless and delightful ideas. To make it worse, this was the same person he'd spent so much of the darkest part of his childhood dreaming about, wanting to see again, wanting so badly to run towards, and now this very person was pulling up such feelings in him as a man.

Miles rolled over on to his side and glared at the closet that held the box with Phoenix's letters. A few small drops ran hot and unbidden across his face. He made no move to stop them or wipe them away.

The whole story up to the present might have been beautiful in some bizarre, cliche way if it weren't all so painful and impossible. Life was not, did not work like, and could not be anything like a cheap romance novel.

In that moment, there was no other truth in the world that struck Miles as so disastrously unfair.

A distinct and aimless anger at this fact welled up inside of him. Before he knew what he was doing, Miles turned on to his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He inhaled sharply. Then he screamed into the fabric, the cotton muffling the sharp sound even to his own ears. He screamed and screamed in frustration stopping only when his breath so dampened the pillow beneath him that he could no longer breathe.

O O O

Temper tantrums, Miles decided, did not suit him. It was disturbing and rather repulsive that such moods were striking him of late. What he required, he told himself, was discipline and organization. By force he would bring order to himself and within that order he would recover his senses.

At 9:35 he climbed out of bed, washed his face and combed his hair. Then he dressed himself in sweats and put attached a small mp3 player and its holder to his arm.

At 9:45 he left his apartment and went for a run. He did not let himself think of anything but the beat of his own breath and the music distracting him in his ears.

At 10:30 he returned to his apartment and stretched his tired muscles, paying attention only to the routine of doing so. Feet, calves, thighs, upper thighs, and so on. Ignoring the ache of his limbs he did a few sets of sit-ups and push-ups, focusing on counting as he did so.

At 11:00 he climbed into the shower and washed the sweat from his body. Then he toweled off and dressed for the day.

At 11:15 he made himself a late breakfast and read the paper carefully, taking the time to cover the local news, international news, the op-ed pages, and finally the arts section.

At 12:05 he checked his e-mail. There was a short letter from Franziska trumpeting her latest victory. While he smiled vaguely at the account, it was the two paragraphs at the end which caught his attention.

_"I am unsure of when I shall be able to see Papa. They are less than accommodating of the condemned in your country, particularly when the condemned disavows any desire to meet with the one requesting visitation. I assume that you will use your influences to correct this foolish situation. _

_I hope it is not too long before we see one another. I tire of suffering foolish fools and would like to see someone who is not an entire fool."_

Coming from Franziska, it was practically a plea.

At 12:30 Miles sat down with a pen and a legal pad and attempted to solve the issues which currently distorted his life.

He made a list: He had not taken a case for two weeks. Franziska needed him and he was no where near her. His relationship with Phoenix had become needlessly complicated. Living in Los Angeles was becoming increasingly unpleasant.

He drew an arrow down from each issue and elaborated below.

He could not bring himself to take a case because he was tired of being pushed around by the system. He no longer trusted anyone above him, his faith in those below him was waning (with, of course, certain exceptions), and even his own instincts seemed to be threatening to fail him.

Franziska was still a child in many respects. While not tied to him by blood, she had considered him her brother since she was three years old. As long as she could remember really. If he had any soul to him at all, he ought to go to see her and behave like the brother she saw him as.

Phoenix. He'd already spent too much of his morning on Phoenix. That didn't need to be elaborated upon.

Los Angeles itself was becoming more and more of a problem. It was his childhood home, the location of his worst trauma, and the reminder of so much he'd tried to forget. When he'd been on top of the system and on top of the world, it had been more than tolerable, even engaging. Now the system was biting back and his pedestal had been shaken. There was little about the place to love.

Miles stared at the notes on the yellow paper, trying to decipher a code in between the lines which would give him an answer.

Underneath everything he wrote in sharp capital letters:

SABBATICAL

And then underneath that.

EUROPE

He frowned contemplatively as he looked at the words. It did seem like they spelled out a reasonable answer for everything. A change of surroundings would help him to get his head back together. The prosecutors' office and the Bar would forget about him for a time. It would put some distance between himself and Phoenix and give them both some time to cool off. And he would be able to be there for Franziska.

All perfectly logical and practical.

So why did it feel like running away?

Miles spent the rest of the afternoon making arrangements. He wrote letters to various bosses and the human resources department requesting a leave of absence be authorized. Then he sent an e-mail to Franziska, informing her of his plans to come to Germany. Then he fired off another set of e-mails to various parties demanding, with varying degrees of intimidation, that Franziska be permitted to see her father- no matter what the old bastard said.

He made travel arrangements, buying a one way ticket with a flexible departure and writing yet another letter, this one informing the co-op board that his property would most likely be vacant for some time and that while he did not wish to sell at this moment, he would contact them again, should such a thing be necessary. In all of this he paused only briefly in the early evening to throw together a sandwich before diving back into the details of his now impending departure.

By 8:00 everything was set- or, at the very least, in an electronic limbo in someone's e-mail box where it would be very soon.

As he stretched out in his favorite chair, Miles had to admit that his head felt a good deal clearer having a definitive plan that made good clear logical sense.

At the same time, it felt awful.

Even though his mind felt settled, his chest seemed hollow and removed from his body. He just needed to calm down, he told himself. The chill was nothing more than an understandable reaction to the stress of having made such a large decision. He rose and getting a short glass and a few ice cubes, poured himself a scotch, hoping the alcohol would calm his nerves and put that nagging feeling at bay.

He put a CD in and let the pragmatically cheerful notes of Dvorak's _Slavonic Dances_ drive out the emptiness of his apartment, while the sounds washed over him, playing with his ears and loosely jostling his thoughts while he drank.

By the end of his drink, he'd had admitted to himself that "the Phoenix Question," as he now dubbed it, was what was putting him on so edge.

Still feeling unsettled, he poured another drink as the collection of Dances on that particular album relented to the laboriously slow first notes of _The New World Symphony_ and continued to let his mind slide from one thought to another.

By the end of the second drink he'd begun to wonder if perhaps Phoenix might have had a point with his little spiel about giving "whatever it was" between them some sort of a shot. After all, from time to time, Phoenix was known to have a reasonable thought in his head and to not be totally ludicrous.

By the third drink Miles had talked himself back the other way and was sure the other man was delusional.

By the fourth drink he'd started to wonder if really they ought to just have a frank discussion between the two of them and talk about things reasonably.

By the fifth drink Miles was beginning to become angrier the more he thought about it. Who was Phoenix to demand such things form him? If anyone in the world should have had some understanding of his position, it was Phoenix. But there he had been. Asking anyway.

By the sixth Miles was simply furious. The rush of the symphony had long ended but he no longer cared. He poured yet another drink in anger.

By the seventh he knew he had to talk to Phoenix immediately. The man deserved a good slap back into reality and Miles was going to have to be the one to give it to him.

Miles stumbled across the apartment to find his phone. His eyes had suddenly become hazy and he had to squint to find Phoenix's name on the contacts list.

"Hello?"

"Phoenix, it's Miles."

"Hi."

"Are you home?"

"Yeah. What's going on?" The voice sounded hopeful but confused. Miles felt a moment of pity for him but then brushed it off.

"Good. I'm coming over." And then he hung up, without waiting for an answer.

O O O

Drunk as he was, Miles could not miss the confusion in Phoenix's eyes when at nearly half-past midnight the prosecutor showed up on his doorstep.

It occurred to him, that first of all, he ought to explain some things.

"Number one," he said holding up a single finger. "I think you should know that I'm very drunk. Number two," he held up a second finger. "I took a cab here, so no drunk driving lectures. And number three" he held up a third finger, his hand wavering, "I'm here because you are an incredible idiot." Miles took in the man in front of him. It wasn't entirely right to say something that harsh, he decided. "Although, I will admit, you are an incredibly good-looking idiot."

Phoenix didn't seem to be moving and his saucer-like blue eyes seemed just as confused as when Miles had started to explain.

Finally, Phoenix sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Come on in," the sober man said, "I'll make some coffee. I think we could both use some."

Phoenix moved aside, letting Miles into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

"You know," Phoenix joked as they walked towards the kitchen, "I'm not entirely sure if I should be glad you think I'm good-looking or upset that you think I'm an idiot." The joke was somewhat uncomfortable, however, and neither man responded.

Phoenix was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, Miles, realized belated. In the back of his alcohol soaked mind, it resonated that this meant something and more than likely added another layer of rudeness to what he was doing. Too late now, though, he reasoned.

"We need to talk," Miles said, leaning back against the kitchen counter. It was rather surprising how much better he felt with something solid behind him.

"Well," Phoenix said dryly as he spooned coffee grounds into the basket. "That's just about the most terrifying sentence in the English language. I think most people would rank it just below "I have a gun."

"I'm serious."

"Alright." The blue-eyed man seemed to take forever pouring water from the carafe into the machine before he turned to face Miles again. "What do we need to talk about?"

"You. And me. And us. And..." Miles mind spun. Just where were the words now that he wanted them? Eloquence had turned traitor, the words had fled. The bastard syllables were gone and he was mumbling.

He straightened himself. If that was the way it's going to be, then just out with it, he thought.

"We need to talk about what you said last night."

"Okay."

Phoenix seemed cold and far away. It wasn't a sensation Miles was finding he enjoyed. It made him feel mean. Well, damn Phoenix, Miles thought. He wasn't being mean, he was just being honest.

"Look, you can't honest expect me to come running at you with open arms after everything we've been through. You can't really think that it's that easy, that I'm that stupid, hell that I'm even okay." Phoenix was still looking at him with that silent face that hurt him so badly. Was Miles even getting through to him? "It'll just be a huge mess. It's already a huge mess. I mean, just because once upon a time we were childhood sweethearts doesn't mean that now..."

"Childhood sweethearts?" Phoenix repeated with half a smile, his words wedging into Miles' tirade, stopping him in his tracks.

Miles gave a short, sharp inhale, as if he were trying to pull the words back into his mouth. His face was hot with embarrassment. Dammit, what are you doing. Miles Edgeworth, you do not blush, he told himself.

"Can we sit down?" Miles asked, suddenly feeling quieter.

"Sure." Some of the coldness seemed to have melted off of Phoenix and Miles followed him into the living room and to the couch gladly.

The couch, Miles noticed, was actually rather worn. Not in unpleasant manner, mind you, but the dark brown upholstery had seen more than the few years it must have had in Phoenix's possession. Then again, it really wasn't that unusual for people their age, normally not long out of college, to have second hand furniture...

"Can I ask you a question?" Phoenix's voice snapped him out of his revery on the state of upholstery as relative to the owner's age and Miles glanced up. Phoenix sat facing him, one arm on the back of the couch.

"Alright." Agreeing seemed easier than not at this point.

"Do you like me?"

Those damn blue eyes were fixed on him. Miles pressed his lips together.

"I'm serious. Be honest with me. Would you really be in my apartment, at midnight, completely drunk, if you didn't like me?"

"I don't think that's the point." Miles found himself gripping the edge of the sofa and trying to think about living room furniture again.

"I think that's exactly the point."

Miles looked back at Phoenix. He was wearing that same face splitting grin that adorned his face when he'd just found an extremely clever argument in the courtroom. A grin really ought to be wiped off his face, Miles thought.

The longer he looked at it, the more he was determined to do just that.

Miles practically lunged at the other man, taking his face in his hands, and kissed him wildly. If Phoenix did little in response, presumably rather surprised, but has Miles persisted, he recovered returning the kiss and placing his hands on Miles' arms. All other thoughts were swept away from Miles mind as instinct coupled with intoxication and he could think of only one thing: raw desire.

He kissed down Phoenix's neck, maneuvering his weight so that as Phoenix relented and lay back, he was on top of the other man. He pushed up Phoenix's t-shirt with one hand, his fingers grazing a nipple as he did so, and he felt the man shiver lightly beneath him. Shifting his attention downwards to that now mostly exposed chest, he picked up his attack on Phoenix's skin making a lazy trail of damp kisses from the top of his chest down to his stomach and then lower. Phoenix's hands were delightfully buried in his hair as he tugged gently on the elastic Phoenix's pajama pants, kissing gently the hipbone that emerged. It all felt so good, his clouded senses were so delightfully engaged and as he kissed down the line following the hip, he was increasingly aware that Phoenix was appreciating the attention, as well. He began to pull the pajamas lower.

And then Phoenix was suddenly pushing him away, sitting up quickly and pulling his clothing back to where it had been minutes before.

Miles' mind managed to hit confusion and resentment together in a dissonant emotional chord.

"Phoenix," he said resettling himself seated on the couch. "I don't know what the hell you want from me." Miles stared at the floor for what seemed like an age while Phoenix remained silent. Finally, deciding he'd waited long enough for an answer, he stood up shakily. "I should go."

Phoenix grabbed the other man by the wrist before he had a chance to take a single step.

"Sit down." His voice ordered. Miles didn't move. "Please." The voice softened. Miles sat.

"I do want you," Phoenix began, slowly, his gaze resting on a downward nowhere. He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I just don't want you this way. Not drunk or sad. I want to make love to you, I don't want to fuck you." Even drunk, Miles was surprised to hear the words come out of Phoenix's mouth that way. "I mean, I do want to. I really want to. Just... not like this." He looked up at Miles, daring to make eye contact for the first time since they'd separated.

Miles was out of words and at this point in his day, rapidly running out of thoughts. He said nothing.

Phoenix sighed again and stood up, walking over to a window, where he stared out, his hands balled into fists and stuffed into the pockets of his pajama pants. He looked, to Miles in that moment, oddly fierce and incredibly attractive.

Still watching him but no longer able to abide with sitting up, Miles allowed himself to lay down on the couch, his head swimming as he did so.

"You really weren't kidding about liking me, were you." He blurted out, in a sentence that made a lot more sense in his head than it did on his lips.

Phoenix shook his head. "You've always been first in line for me." Miles noticed that he didn't turn to look at him and he watched the man's back and profile as he spoke. "I never really realized it, I mean, I guess I never really admitted what that meant until recently, no." Phoenix chuckled lightly, a sideways grin working it's way on to his lips. "I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids. And then I always had this crush on this idea of you. Even when I fell in love..." Phoenix looked up, the smile becoming more pained, "after it was gone, there was the thought of you. And then I met you again, the real you, not my idea of you," his shoulders sank and his gaze dropped a look of defeat crossed his face. "I found out I liked you even more. Probably adore you." He paused. "I'm scared to death by the idea of sex with a man but all I want is you. It's crazy." He glanced over his shoulder at the inebriated man on the couch. "I'm sorry I'm an idiot," he said simply.

A confessional silence hung over the apartment and Miles felt he ought to respond with something, anything.

"I still have all your letters," Miles said, finally.

Phoenix looked at him surprised. "Really? I... I guess, I just assumed you never got them. I never heard from you and you never mentioned..."

"I got them all. Or at least, I think I got them all. That is to say, I think all the ones I have are all the ones that are. You wrote until we were thirteen, right?"

Phoenix nodded dumbly.

"And again when we were twenty for a couple of years?"

Another nod.

"Then I got them all." Miles said rolling on to his back with a satisfied tone in his voice. "I kept them all. I have a box for them, too." Phoenix watched him as he spoke, the stunned gaze still on his face. "I used to read them and pretend that I could write back. I'd read them and pretend for a minute that I had something worth telling you, some kind of a normal life. 'Dear Phoenix, I met a nice boy, we're going to law school together. On the weekends we picnic on the beach.'" Miles let out something that sounded somewhere between a choke and a giggle. "Hilarious," he said.

It wasn't though and Phoenix wasn't laughing. Instead he walked back to the couch.

"Sit up."

Miles propped himself up on his elbows, slightly confused. Phoenix sat down on the emptied portion of the couch.

"Okay, you can lie down, now." he said more quietly. As Miles did so, he realized as he did that he was now laying on Phoenix's lap. He tried to look at the face above him, to meet those blue eyes but his eyelids were getting increasingly heavy. He could feel Phoenix's fingers brushing silvery locks hair off his forehead, then running his fingers through Miles' hair. It felt good. Better than good, in fact. Miles felt himself relax even more into the other man's lap, no longer even trying to open his eyes, just feeling. It felt warm. And safe.

"What am I going to do with you?" He heard Phoenix murmur. Miles tried to say something but even he could tell it was just a mumble on his lips.

Phoenix brushed a finger over the elegantly shaped lips and then moved in a line to trace the man's jaw. Miles swallowed lightly at the contact and made some undefinable noise in approval when Phoenix's hands went back to his hair.

He heard Phoenix's voice, sounding soft and far away.

"I wish I could heal you," he said. "I wish I could take away whatever you're going through and make it better."

And then Miles heard nothing, having finally slipped into oblivion.


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15: In which Edgeworth has a hangover and Phoenix cannot finish the crossword. _

* * *

Phoenix sat at his kitchen table sipping coffee and doing his damnedest to concentrate on the Sunday crossword puzzle. It wasn't like he was any good at crosswords, anyway. Generally they frustrated him with their cryptic clues. He ended up feeling like a brainless school boy and wishing he had something nice and easy like a word find. He had, however, already finished the jumble and the sudoku, so it was down to either the reprinted version of _The New York Times_ Sunday crossword or the bridge challenge to keep his mind occupied.

Phoenix had no idea how to play bridge.

He was currently trying very hard to keep his mind occupied so that he could think about something other than the silvery-haired man who was currently still asleep in his living room, having passed out on the couch the night before. Not that he minded thinking about him, really. It was just that Phoenix had already been up for a while, he was on his second cup of coffee, and really everything that needed to be thought about had already been thought about twice. Now it was just a sort of waiting game until the other man woke up.

He took another sip of coffee and focused intently on the clues again. There was some sort of pattern to the answers and if he could just see it then all the odd prompts might make some sort of sense . . . Phoenix's lexigraphical contemplations were cut short by a rustling noise and a small groan coming from the other room.

About time, he thought, picking up a glass and a bottle of pills and heading into the living room.

The Miles Edgeworth sitting up on the couch was something of a train wreck. His hair was sticking out at odd angles and he looked paler than ordinary. The pillow that Phoenix had used to replace his lap lay on the floor next to the couch. The blanket he'd laid over the other man was currently tangled around his legs.

"Good morning," Phoenix said cheerfully.

Miles took in the other man through careful half-opened eyes. "Morning." His voice was rough and flat.

"I thought these might be a good idea after the night you had last night," Phoenix said, setting the glass of water and the bottle of aspirin on the coffee table. Miles stayed fixated on Phoenix for the barest of moments as he did so, apparently making some kind of judgement, the results of which failed to make themselves known. Removing the blanket from his person, Miles slid his legs off the couch and reached for the bottle of aspirin.

"Thank you." He said simply.

"How do you feel?" Phoenix asked, sitting down on the now empty portion of the couch.

"Probably exactly how you imagine I feel," Miles said tossing a pair of the small white tablets into his mouth and then washing them down with the water. He drank most of the glass then placed it on the table before reaching up to cautiously smooth his hair. After a moment he gave up and sat still again. "I'm sorry for the trouble I caused you." His lips were pursed as he spoke and Phoenix noticed him gripping one of his biceps while doing his best to avoid looking at Phoenix's face. It was a posture which Phoenix distinctly recognized as the one Miles assumed when he was most uncomfortable.

"Hey." Phoenix leaned over and rested a hand on the man's other arm. "It's okay. We all do really dumb things sometimes. To be honest, I'd be a little worried if you didn't, too." Phoenix put on his best encouraging smile. Miles still didn't look at him, which wasn't the best sign, but he didn't try to shrug off Phoenix's hand, either.

"Regardless. I do owe you an apology." The other man's face was still clouded and Phoenix wondered if he was trying to torture himself. The grip on his biceps hadn't eased either. If anything it had become more intense.

"For what?" Phoenix slid closer to the other man and leaned over his should to speak gently into his ear. "Making out with your would-be-boyfriend? There are much worse things you could do in life."

This remark earned a reaction from Miles, who turned his head rapidly and met Phoenix's eyes.

"My would-be-boyfriend, huh." Phoenix was close enough to notice the smell of sour, morning-after alcohol breath as he spoke. "I would say that is an ambitious title."

"Well, hey" Phoenix ran a hand through the surprisingly fine errant locks of Miles' hair as he stood up. "I'm also hoping for a promotion."

He left the room before Miles had a chance to react.

The truth was, Phoenix admitted to himself as he opened the linen closet, he had been rather shaken by Miles' performance the night previous. Drunk and angry was not a state Phoenix had ever pictured him in and it had all seemed so disastrously out of character. It made him worry and hurt for Miles.

Phoenix pulled a towel out and shut the door. Phoenix felt an urge to keep him safe, much like he had during that dark time that had marked the man's murder trial. He couldn't blame Miles for being fragile after everything that had happened in the past couple of months. In fact, he thought he understood the man well enough to _almost_ figure out what he had been rambling about in his drunken stupor the night previous.

Phoenix came back into the living room with the towel and tossed it at the man on the couch. "I thought you might like a shower. Just so you know, I'm holding you hostage at least through breakfast before I let you call a cab home. Okay?"

Miles picked up the towel almost dumbly and questioningly looked at Phoenix with his dull hungover eyes.

"Come on." Phoenix grabbed Miles' hand and guided him out of the living room, pointing him in the direction of a half-open door. "Bathroom's right there. Feel free to use anything. I think there might even be a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet that you can use. I'm going to go make some eggs."

Then Phoenix left him, walking back to the kitchen.

Phoenix also understood Miles well enough to know that as much as he might need affection or friendship, the only way those things would get through to him was by force. Therefore, he had simply decided, he would compel him to accept them, whether he claimed to like it or not.

O O O

Several minutes later a much cleaner smelling Miles Edgeworth walked into the kitchen, his face now of a somewhat less deathly pallor and strands of water damped hair sticking to his cheeks.

Phoenix half looked up from buttering toast to greet him.

"Hey. Have a seat. I'll have eggs done in a minute." Phoenix flopped a final piece of bread on the pile in front of him, butter side down matching butter side up. Next he sliced off a bit of butter and tossed it on an already heated pan, deftly picking up the pan and it swirling it around for a moment, covering the bottom with butter. Then he picked up a bowl of beaten egg and cheese from the counter and poured the whole mess into the pan.

Miles sat and watched this flurry of motion. It wasn't difficult cooking by any means and his face remained largely impassive, but there was an oddly curious glint in his eyes.

"Do you want coffee?" Phoenix asked. "I don't think I have any tea but I check."

"Coffee black, would be most appreciated. And a glass of water if you don't mind."

"Sure thing." Phoenix paused in his egg scrambling long enough to pull a mug out of the cupboard and filled it from the pot on the counter. "I don't remember you drinking your coffee black," he said, handing the cup to Miles.

"I don't," Miles said flatly, sipping the black liquid. "Unless, of course, I happen to have had seven glasses of whiskey the night before."

"Seven?!" The spatula slipped against the bottom of the pan as Phoenix tried to control his obvious shock.

He recovered quickly, though, picking up the pan and dishing the eggs onto two plates. "You know, I'm weirdly impressed. I don't think I could drink that much without dying. Seven beers, maybe, but seven glasses of whiskey?" Phoenix shook his head. "Yikes."

"If the way I feel this morning is any indication, dying very well may be in my immediate future," Miles said grimly.

"Well," Phoenix placed the two plates of eggs and the stack of toast on the table, "I've always found that greasy food helps. Of course," he continued talking almost for the sake of talking now, as he poured a glass of water for Miles, "it's kind of a balance. Just enough grease settles your stomach too much though and . . . "

"I don't usually drink that much," Miles interrupted quietly.

"I know." Phoenix set the water down in front of the other man and then sat across from him.

The two men ate quietly for a bit, one man approaching breakfast eagerly, the other simply picking at his eggs and nibbling on a piece of toast, his pale face betraying the much more unpleasant reality of his stomach.

Idly, Miles glanced at the crossword puzzle still laying on the table.

"Panicea," he said tapping a finger on a few pencil-marked squares where Phoenix had obviously been struggling to figure out the answer.

"What?"

"Panicea. 'A panic inducing cure-all.' P-A-N-I-C-E-A." He glanced at the puzzle for another moment. "All the answers are puns made out of portmanteaus."

"Ah-ha." Phoenix picked up the puzzle and glanced at it again before putting it back down. "I'm still never going to be able to finish it," he said good-naturedly.

"I don't understand."

"Hey, I've just really never been good at those things."

"That's not what I meant," Miles said, pushing his eggs distractedly around his plate. "I don't understand why you aren't furious with me after the way I've behaved."

He looked to Phoenix, for the barest of moments, just like the child he'd known so many years ago, mourning over a ripped pair of pants or a late stay at the park, a scolding from his father close on the horizon.

"I thought about it," Phoenix admitted, spearing a large piece of egg. "I actually spent all morning trying to figure out how I was supposed to feel about last night."

"Oh?"

"You want to know what I came up with?"

"Yes." Miles put his fork down and folded his hands in front of him on the table.

"You and I," Phoenix gestured between the two of them with his egg laden fork, "have a very, very weird relationship." He popped the egg into his mouth with a satisfied smile.

"That's it?" Miles raised an eyebrow.

"Taking everything from fifteen years ago up through last night? Yeah. That's all I've got."

Miles sighed and reached for his coffee cup. "I just don't know what you want from me, honestly."

Phoenix shrugged biting into a piece of toast. "Not much. Friendship. Your company. Make outs."

Miles half choked on his coffee with something that almost sounded like a laugh.

Phoenix made a less than dignified half giggle in response. "Did the great and stoic Miles Edgeworth laugh?"

Miles let the comment glide over him. "I just never thought you would be so forward," he responded.

"Like the way I gave you a blanket and pillow and left you on the couch instead of ravishing you in your sleep?" Phoenix gestured with his toast as he spoke then took another gleeful bite, hoping that Miles would catch the joke.

"I mean comments like that."

"Sorry." The joke had obviously not been appreciated and Phoenix felt suddenly a little embarrassed- although how he'd managed to be embarrassed in his own kitchen, sitting at his own table, was a little beyond him. "I guess well . . . everything is already on the table pretty much, I thought. And my humor has never really been the best . . . " Phoenix rambled, distractedly rubbed the back of his neck while he talked. Then he met Miles eyes again and his words trailed into nothingness.

The silvery-haired man wore an expression on his face much like the one he'd worn after the Bar meeting when he'd whispered that thing in his ear. There was a softness to him yet his eyes maintained that special intensity. Phoenix felt his heart and breath both catch in a profoundly physical reaction to that look.

"I uh . . . well . . . I just . . . " Phoenix stuttered, grasping at words.

"May I kiss you?" That calm voice broke through his fumblings as if it were saying the most reasonable thing in the world.

"Huh?" Brilliant, Wright, Phoenix berated himself. "Sure, yes . . . I mean . . . okay?"

Very smooth.

Standing up to slide his chair around next to Phoenix, Miles sat down again, his face now mere inches away from the other man's. Gently, he brushed an errant dark lock of Phoenix's hair back. Phoenix searched his eyes for some clue, a spark, anything, that might betray what he was thinking.

He found nothing. Just the knowledge that those eyes were fixed on his. Then Miles leaned in and his lashes fluttered shut while his lips parted.

The kiss was slow but exhilarating and Phoenix felt as if some part deep inside of him was shivering in a violent but wonderful way. Their mouths remained fixed on each other for what seemed, to Phoenix, like blissful hours, Miles hand cupping his face, their mouths exploring each other bit by bit. When finally Miles began to lean back to break the kiss, Phoenix leaned in again and the whole process began all over. Somewhere in the back of his head, it occurred to Phoenix that this was the first kiss they'd had completely sober and so perhaps in a way it was the first real kiss of all.

Eventually, the act worked its way to its natural conclusion and Phoenix found himself staring into Miles' eyes all over again. He was struck by how different the look on the other man's face was from when he'd kissed him the night before. Then his hazy eyes had glowed with lust. Now they glowed again but this time with something less sharp and more endearing.

"Thank you," Phoenix mumbled, not entirely sure why he was saying it.

"Careful." Miles said, his voice barely a whisper. "A man could get used to that."

"Kissing or being thanked?" Phoenix asked playfully but just as quietly.

"Probably both." Miles inhaled deeply and sat up straight, putting distance between himself and Phoenix. "All of this actually. Breakfast. You being so damned forgiving." Miles gave a small but obvious smirk. "You not knowing how to do the crossword."

"It is _The New York Times_ puzzle," Phoenix protested automatically. "Besides, what's so bad about that?" He leaned forward and picked up one of Miles' hands in his own, gently rubbing the back with his thumbs as he held it. "The way you say it, you make it sound like a bad thing." Phoenix smiled. "The whole breakfast and kissing thing. Not the crossword thing."

Miles' lips twitched in no particular direction as if there were words they wanted to form but he said nothing, simply glancing down at the hand Phoenix held in both of his.

"Miles," Phoenix turned his hand over and began massaging the palm in the same soft way he'd rubbed the back of his hand. "Really, if you ever want to talk, its okay. I'll listen, I swear." He tilted his head and studied the other man's face for evidence of a reaction to the offer.

Something analytical and distinctly Miles-like was working its way around behind his eyes, as he pressed his lips together. Finally the silvery-haired man looked up and taking each of Phoenix's hands in one of his, he held them for a moment before running his fingers over the palms and then up Phoenix's exposed forearms with agonizing slowness.

"How about this." He said deliberately. "You let me do something to make it up to you. Let me apologize for all the trouble I've caused."

Phoenix swallowed, wondering what the other man possibly had in mind. "Like what?"

"Whatever you want. Let me buy you something, take you somewhere. The theatre, maybe . . . I saw all the plays you have in there. Just let me do something somewhat tangible, so that I can feel as though I've tried to properly apologize."

Phoenix's heart slowed down. Of course. That made sense. People didn't really make propositions like that in real life. "Well . . . " it was increasingly difficult for him to concentrate with those fingers continuing to trace up his palms past his wrists and back again. He reached for his coffee and took another drink, stopping the contact with Miles and giving himself time to think in the same motion.

"All right," he finally said. "A date. Like an honest-to-God date, where we go out and talk and try to have a good time and not really worry about anything else."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"Well," Phoenix pulled the last from his coffee cup and set the mug on the table. "That's the way the straight kids do it. I've never been on a gay date, though. Do you guys do something radically different I don't know about?"

"Phoenix." Miles leaned forward again, that faux-conspiratorial look on his face.

"Yes?" Phoenix leaned in to match him.

"I hate to be the one to break it to you but you are rapidly becoming one of 'us guys.'" Miles lips turned into a faint smile as he spoke.

"Shucks," Phoenix said bringing his face even closer. "Looks like you're going to have to show me the ropes."

"Maybe." The last word was only partially spoken however, cut off as it was by the well-timed collision of Phoenix's mouth against Miles'. This time the kiss was shorter, perhaps a bit faster and certainly less delicate and more gleeful.

"I imagine," Phoenix breathed, when they separated at last, "that it starts out something like that."

"I'd certainly say you've got the hang of that much," Miles said just as breathlessly.

"So . . . date?"

"I'll look at my calendar and give you a call later." Miles slowly turned and leaned on the table, forehead in his palm, eyes shut. He was still worryingly pale, Phoenix realized.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine . . . just. I think the hangover's getting a second wind."

"Oh," Phoenix stood up and went refill Miles' water glass while the other man let his head drift onto his folded arms. "I wish you'd have said something."

"Take it as a compliment. I feel this bad and I still wanted to kiss you."

Phoenix smiled putting the now full water glass down my Miles's head.

"I do." He ran his fingers idly through Miles' hair, an action which seemed to cause him some relief. "You want me to call you a cab now? So you can go home and pass out on your own couch?"

"That sounds delightful," said a muffled voice from the table.

"Hey," Phoenix said, dialing a familiar set of numbers. "I did say I was only going to hold you hostage through breakfast."


	16. Chapter 16

Lemme just say one last time, that you cats and kittens reading this story are the best. Thanks for all your kind words, encouragement, favs, etc. (Also, I'm usually pretty good at responding to reviews but I can't do that if you don't sign them!) Hooray for the endless goodwill of the Phoenix Wright fandom. :)

* * *

Waking up for the second time that day, Miles was first of all pleased to note that his head no longer hurt and his stomach only felt slightly wobbly, rather than turned completely inside out. Secondly, there was an odd twinge of disappointment as he realized that he was waking up in his own living room rather than on a particular comfortable but slightly worn, second-hand couch.

He'd woken up there this morning, though. Miles pulled the afghan that was covering him over his head. Just the memory of silly a piece of furniture made a warm feeling spread across his chest. All he wanted was for a few moments, to hide in the warm sleepiness of his mind and that memory.

You really ought to be ashamed of yourself, the rational part of his mind told him. You ought to be incredibly embarrassed about what you did.

The more irrational part of his mind that was enjoying the warm feeling shoved this thought aside. The fantastic thing was that it had been okay. He'd woken up and Phoenix had been there with water and painkillers, all full of smiles and ready talk things out with him.

He likes me, the irrational part of his brain said, causing the warmth to grow even more.

He likes me.

The rational part of his mind spoke up again. What difference does that make? Your life is still a wreck, you're still leaving, it's all pointless.

But he was sweet and he forgave me and made me eggs, the irrational part argued.

This part of his brain was sounding more and more childlike to his ears as he went on. But that part of his mind couldn't be bothered to care, so it didn't matter really. It had been years since someone had so openly offered him care and affection and in response, small feelings and instincts, so long removed they'd almost begun to be forgotten were surfacing. It was an odd but not unpleasant feeling.

And what do you really think you're going to do with those feelings, Edgeworth? The rational mind asked him. You're not a boy anymore. You can't expect that sort of thing to last. You're a grown man.

Miles pulled the afghan even tighter around himself. If there was one thing he prided himself on it was his sense of self-discipline. Years of fanatic study and work had granted him a sharpness of concentration and a control of focus that could rival any distraction. As he had done many times in life, he directed that discipline inwards and ordered his thoughts in line.

I can berate myself for being weak later, he thought, but for now, I get one good afternoon.

With one determined shove, the nagging thoughts of his rational mind were pushed so far into the back as to be forgotten and Miles let himself think of only one thing.

Kissing Phoenix.

He lay there and let the electric currents of memory run up and down his spine, sure for all the world that in some very intangible, irrational, and inconcrete way, every thing was going to be all right.

O O O

Everything was not all right.

Miles sat in his office holding a few pieces of paper in his hands, his eyes rushing back and forth over the print again and again. His hands, normally so powerful in their own way, so expressive and steady, suddenly seemed very small and useless and the weight of just a few sheets threatened to make them shake like leaves.

At long last he set the papers down, afraid he might let them scatter to the floor or worse. He ordered himself to breathe, steady even breaths. He rang his secretary.

"Could you bring me a cup of tea, please?"

"Of course, sir." The voice of his secretary on the other end was businesslike and uncomforting. Still, the tea would help his nerves.

O O O

They day before had been an oddly delightful one. Miles had taken Monday off and spent most of it packing things in his apartment. His departure to Europe had suddenly taken on a surprisingly sentimental quality and he found himself looking forward to idealized future moments of buying hot crepes on the street, taking walks the in Tiergarten, and wearing thick Itallian coats to ward of the early German spring chill.

He did know that he had to tell Phoenix he was leaving. But the funny thing was, that warm and irrational conviction from Sunday afternoon had stayed with him.

In his mind when he imagined telling Phoenix, somehow this all still sorted itself out. Phoenix could come and visit him in Berlin or perhaps in odd spaces they could meet somewhere in between, perhaps Paris or New York. If Miles had allowed himself the time to think about it, he would have admitted that such solutions didn't make much sense. But with the same iron conviction that had shoved aside his nagging doubts the day before, he refused to let himself acknowledge that this one thing in his life would be anything less than okay.

Halfway through the third shelf of books in the nonfiction section in his living room, in the political philosophy subdivision to be exact, the feeling drifted away. Right there in the middle of determining that yes, while Foucault's essays might be worth taking along, he couldn't ever see himself tackling Hegel again, save in a fit of masochism, the thought occurred to him clearly and distinctly.

What am I doing? He asked himself.

He really couldn't honestly be pinning so much on a half-baked romance that stood on nothing more than a few kisses, some awkward speech-making, and a single morning of intoxicating forgiveness and charity.

He looked at the books in his hands. Rationality, he told himself. Think about it all logically. He put one book on the shelf. He wasn't Foucault. He didn't need to complicate to seem serious. The remaining book remained heavy in his hand. Perhaps Hegel was right. Truth was so complicated that the only place to start was in the middle.

With a sigh Miles leaned on the arm of his couch, weighing the book in his hands.

It wasn't a half-baked romance, really. And it wasn't the impossible sweeping romance that had driven him to a screaming fit two days ago. Very carefully, his mind walked through his relationship with Phoenix. Childhood affection. Distant letter writing companion. Fool who had suddenly bizarrely reappeared in the post. Sudden rival. Personal savior. Legal ally. Friend. Potential lover.

He flipped through the book, opening random pages but not really reading any of it. It didn't matter where he started. Phoenix was important. He would have to talk to him about leaving and the sooner the better.

He closed the book and staring at the spine, addressed its author. "I hate it when you actually have a point about something." Then he set the book back on the shelf and gave it one more spiteful glance before he picking up the Foucault and pulling out a few other random volumes.

"I still, however," he said again addressing the long dead German philosopher whose book lay rejected on the shelf, "have no intention of slogging through your interminable prose ever again."

O O O

That had been yesterday. Today, the world had begun to end.

His secretary knocked lightly and then walked into his office without waiting for an answer, bringing him a cup of tea and a small pitcher of milk on the side. No sugar.

"Thank you." He hardly looked up to acknowledge her.

"Are you all right, sir? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine." With a wave of his wrist the woman was gone.

There had been two letters and one file waiting for him that morning. The first came from the office of the Court of Appeals and was simply a cover-letter for the file:

_Please find attached the recent results of the appeal for case number NR-9, originally tried on June 17, 2012. Please be advised, that you are being informed of the results pursuant to penal code 203.4.6 of the state of California. _

The second letter came from the State Bar:

_In light of recent events in the police department and prosecutors' office in the district of Los Angeles, it is the express opinion of the State Bar that all attorneys, both public and private, exercise the upmost caution in dealing with affairs within the Justice System. _

_To this end, the Bar Association of the State of California will offer a seminar on proper procedure in the case of suspected corruption. The seminar will take place March 26, 2014 at 6:00 p.m. at the Los Angeles district offices of the State Bar and will be the equivalent of one CLE credit._

There had also been a small handwritten note from Patricia Reiner in the envelope with the letter from the Bar:

_I hope you will make sure that Mr. Wright sees this, as well. The seminar may be of interest to you both._

_kind regards,_

_Patricia Reiner_

Kind regards, indeed.

Each piece of paper was innocuous in and of itself. Put together, however, they spelled something written in none of the texts.

We know things went wrong. It ends here. Stay down. Stay quite. Or we'll get you. And Wright.

The proof that they could do just that was sitting in the copy of the case file in front of him. It was one of the appeals he'd been informed of but not asked to make a statement about.

NR-9 had been a murder case, one whose verdict had hinged very carefully on the testimony of a single witness.

The witness had been a nice enough girl, a young actress, waiting tables between gigs and acting classes. A type all too common in Los Angeles. She'd witnessed a fight in one of the restaurants she'd worked at that had ended with a man dead.

The accused had been a nineteen-year-old college student who happened to be out drinking with fake ID that night. The man who'd died had been a biology professor and his mentor.

The testimony had been riddled with holes and there was a pile of contradictions in the case. It was clear the kid had been in the same place by the professor entirely by accident (after all, being caught drinking with the fake by his professor would have placed him on academic suspension, at the very least) but Miles had, had his eye witness. So Miles had coached the waitress endlessly, closed the holes in her story, practically given her a script. She'd done remarkably. She was an actress, after-all.

He had knocked that poor boy right off the defendant's seat and had him declared guilty in less than a day.

Looking at the transcript of the appeal it was obvious that the boy hadn't, couldn't, in fact, have done it. That the testimony of the girl had been carefully coached in the original trial was also obvious. Which was why no statement from the original prosecution had been requested.

If someone wanted to create a scandal around him they easily could. It wasn't just a record of an appeal. It was someone showing him that they were, in fact, in possession of a knife.

The funny thing was, though, Miles couldn't bring himself to care about the knife. He was tired of being threatened, he was leaving, he was done. And once he was gone he didn't need to worry about Phoenix, either. There was little they could do to him and no skeletons in his short career, Miles was sure.

What turned his stomach was the realization that he'd sent someone not guilty almost to their death. That someone would use that knowledge to try and shut him up was sick enough but that it had even happened . . .

Oh God.

Miles took a sip of tea and rested his head in his hand. He couldn't imagine why this had never occurred to him before, least of all when he was actually doing it. And if this one boy wasn't guilty than probably in four years of prosecution, there were others. And few appeals were even granted . . .

Oh God.

He was much more than likely, almost assuredly, responsible for the deaths and destruction of innocent people.

Miles felt like he was going to throw up.

In fact, he was sure he was going to throw up.

Bolting out of his office and down the hall to the men's room, Miles threw open a bathroom stall and sank down to his knees in front of the cold porcelain bowl, the thin metal of the stall door bouncing shut behind him. Clutching the rim, the tea and breakfast before came out in a series of acrid heaving rushes.

He stayed leaning over the toilet for a moment, sweat and spittle dripping off of his face before he finally brought himself to lower his shaking body to the floor. Leaning against the wall of the stall, he haphazardly pulled down a wad of toilet paper, wiping off his face and blowing his nose.

His cravat, he noticed absently, was ruined.

He pulled it off and wrapped it into a ball to be thrown away later.

This was what he got for being von Karma's disciple. He couldn't believe he had honestly imagined that he'd done the same things von Karma had done and somehow come out of it smelling like roses. He hadn't taken a case in two weeks now because the thought of being von Karma-like or Gant-like had been too much for him. But he'd never actually admitted to himself the obvious end of that train of thought.

God, he was a wreck of a human being.

After a few more moments of gathering his breath, Miles flushed the toilet and emerged from the stall, thanking the heavens that no one had walked in while he sat on the floor. Tossing the cravat in the garbage can he set about washing his hands and splashing water on his face.

He caught his image in the mirror and for the briefest of moments, the same image that he'd imagined two weeks ago, the image of his father's face super-imposed on his own crossed his mind.

His stomach heaved again, only this time there was nothing to come up.

Just as he was toweling his hands and face, his cell phone rang. Phoenix. He answered.

"Hello."

"Hey, Miles!" He certainly sounded upbeat.

"Yes? I am at work, Phoenix, so please be quick." Miles could tell there was a quiver in his voice as he spoke.

"Sorry, sorry, I was taking lunch and I just walked past this pool hall that recently opened up by my office."

"And?"

"Well, it struck me that I've been wanting to go there. And calling you and telling you that I'd like to beat you in a couple of rounds of eightball suddenly seemed like the most reasonable thing I could do."

"Oh."

Miles leaned against the bathroom wall. The timing of the conversation was absurd. His stomach clenched again and he breathed deeply hiding the noise as best he could.

"Hey, you do owe me a date, remember?" Phoenix was teasing but he was right. And Miles did have to talk to him.

"I think I can do that. Shall I meet you there after work?"

"Sounds like a plan! It's just down the street from my office. Fat Cat Billiards. It's between Ocean and Lexington. See you there, say seven?"

"All right then."

"See you then." There was a pause and Miles wondered briefly if Phoenix noticed that anything was askew. "Hey, Miles?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget to take lunch, okay? Even the King of Prosecutors has to eat."

"Very cute. See you tonight."

"Bye."

And he was gone. Miles leaned against the bathroom wall, the cold tiles resting against his back, and brought his head back with a soft but satisfying thuds. His chest clenched again, a whole new emotion thrown into the disastrous mix. The feelings churning through him threatened to swallow him whole, both inside and out.

I just can't do this, he thought, closing his eyes. Everything, all of this, is just too much.


	17. Chapter 17

_Yes, this is the second chapter in less than a week. The last chapter was sort of short and this one was already half-written and I dunno... Merry Christmas?_

_This chapter contains strong profanity and moderate sexual content._

* * *

It had been a long day in a rather lonely office before the worn out young defense attorney was able to pull himself away from a rather large pile of documents. Tired though he may have been, however, he was in pretty good spirits, as life seemed to be working remarkably in his favor.

The past weekend had been... well, for lack of a better word in his mind, intense. Those feelings had then spilled over into the week and frankly, even after only a couple of days without talking to him, all he really wanted was to see Miles.

That today was turning out so well, stemmed from the fact that while Phoenix firmly believed in the value of the principle of delayed gratification, in practice he was getting a little tired of it. Walking by the pool hall had merely provided a convenient excuse to nudge things along. Even then, he'd honestly expected to be put off for at least another couple of days.

As it turned out, he hadn't had to delay gratification for very long at all.

By some stroke of luck, he arrived at the pool hall at the same time that Miles' familiar bright red sports car came into view down the street. Phoenix watched as the sleek car pulled into a spot up the block and mused that if by some weird twist he were to start wanting to sleep with people on the basis of their cars, that car would probably be the one to do it.

He didn't really car much for cars, though. Phoenix vaguely guessed that the car in question was probably Italian but beyond that, he couldn't say much. He'd never been one to enjoy talk about engines or horsepower and never really even cared much about speed or shiny exteriors. Besides, gas was far too expensive these days for him to even think about driving and, in his more smug moments, he could feel vaguely self-righteous that he was doing the environmentally sound thing by biking and taking public transportation.

Looking at the car he cast a small wish out in to the universe that Miles would never act so out of character as to try to start up a nice manly conversation about the mechanics of automobiles.

On the other hand, he thought, leaning against the exterior of the pool hall and watching Miles gracefully emerge from the vehicle, this particular car did have an appeal to it. Maybe he could go the other way and start liking cars based on wanting to sleep with their owners.

As Miles came closer, though, it became clear that something heavy was weighing on him and his face seemed dark and drawn.

"Hey, bad day at the office?" Phoenix asked, by way of a greeting.

Miles' head jerked up. Had he really not noticed that Phoenix was standing what was now only six feet away?

"You could say that," he said evenly.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Miles gave him a look that said a dozen things, all of which indicated that Phoenix's question had been a remarkably stupid one.

Alright, Phoenix reasoned. He could come at Miles from a different angle. At this point in their acquaintance he felt like he was collecting new ones constantly. Sooner or later, he'd probably have a thousand.

"Your loss," Phoenix shrugged. "I just thought you might want to unload your shoulders before I destroy you at pool. But if you only want to make things harder on yourself, be my guest." Phoenix took a few steps, closing some of the remaining distance between himself and the other man. "I'll be a gracious winner, I promise."

Miles was only slightly less than an inch taller than he was but it was amazing to Phoenix how the man was able to look down on him if he chose. He did so now, peering down his nose at Phoenix.

"You assume you're going to win." There was nothing playful in his voice but Phoenix caught a twinkle in his eye.

"Actually," Phoenix shifted so he was even closer, "can I tell you an awful secret?"

"Only if you swear to be appropriately embarrassed afterwards," Miles replied lifting an eyebrow.

Phoenix grinned. "I'm awful at pool," he half whispered.

Miles leaned in slightly. "Be still my beating heart.f"

It occurred to Phoenix that their faces had somehow become separated by an almost non-existent amount of space and that they were very close to kissing in public.

Both men took a step back. "Well, then. If you're bad enough to warrant telling secrets about it, I'm curious enough to demand a demonstration."

Phoenix turned and opened the door to the pool hall. "After you, sir."

The pool hall was dim and only half full, largely patronized by twenty-somethings relieved to find themselves no longer at work. The floor was hardwood and the walls were decorated with various vintage advertisements for beer, soda, and the like. The space was filled with classic green covered tables, lined up side by side, with just enough space between them to allow each player a reasonable shot.

A young woman with a look of terminal unhappiness stood at a counter with a computer and a cash register near the door, assigning tables and distributing balls. At the far end was a bar, with an amusingly classically dressed bartender, complete with a black bow tie and vest. Some jazz song drifted over the loudspeakers and Phoenix half expected the air to be filled with cigarette smoke, as if the venue itself had drifted out of another era.

"I'll get us a table if you'll grab us drinks."

Miles nodded absently. "What would you like?"

"Um, a Guinness, if they have one on tap. If not, I'll take whatever they have that's darkest."

Miles nodded again and headed across the room. It seemed to Phoenix that there was a half there quality about the man, which only improved when he was addressing Phoenix directly. It was as if somehow when Phoenix looked away, he might to slowly disappear.

Shaking his head, Phoenix sent the worry to the back of his mind to live with the host of others that had taken up residence. He turned to the bored-looking girl behind the counter.

"One table, please."

"It's twenty-five an hour. You got a card?" Phoenix dug one out of his wallet and handed it to her, trying to give her a winning smile. This won him no response, however. She simply punched a few things in on the computer screen, swiped the card, gave Phoenix his card back, then reached under the counter to take out a rack of balls, the same apathetic look never leaving her face. "Here you go. Table twelve." She pointed. "It's over there."

"Thanks."

Phoenix wandered over to the pool table, set down the heavy tray of billiard balls, and then took off his coat and blue suit jacket laying them both over the back of one of the high chairs at a nearby table. He picked out a couple of pool cues and rolled them back and forth on the table to make sure they were straight. He hadn't lied when he'd told Miles that he was an awful pool player, which was true enough. He had, however, played more than a few games in his life and there was a sort of familiarity about the whole ritual, as if his muscles remembered college more clearly than he did.

Now poker on the other hand, that was something he'd been good at playing...

His mind drifted off mid-thought as Miles set a pair of glasses on the table. One was Phoenix's dark beer; the other was a clear beverage with a lime.

"It's just seltzer." Miles said, taking off his own coat. Phoenix noticed vaguely that the man had obviously taken the time to go home and change into a pair of slacks and button down shirt but decided not to read too much into it. "Here." Miles pulled a CD out of his coat pocket and handed it to Phoenix. "You asked me about opera, so I figured..."

Phoenix turned the plastic wrapped CD over in his hands. Verdi's Aida. "Thank you." The words came out more reverently than he meant to. He looked up at Miles who was watching his reaction amusedly. "So what's it about? The story, I mean."

"Well," Miles said, sipping his drink. "It's about an Ethiopian princess who gets pressed into slavery. Mostly though, it's about two lovers who want more than anything to be together, even though it seems absolutely impossible."

"And does it work out?"

"It's a tragedy, so no. And yes. They end up together but they die in each other's arms. Well, he's condemned to death and she chooses to die with him."

"Charming woman." Phoenix said jokingly, setting the CD on the table.

"It's actually very beautiful." Miles' voice sounded completely sincere and a sort of shock rolled down Phoenix's spine. In certain moments, the pattern of which Phoenix still had yet to discern, the man could be so completely honest when he spoke that the sudden nakedness took Phoenix by surprise.

"Then I can't wait to listen to it." Phoenix picked up a pool cue and rubbed blue chalk on the end. "Do you want to break first?"

Miles waved a hand. "Please. As I said, I'm ready to see a demonstration of how bad you are."

They played for the better part of an hour, conversation cut short by game play and reduced largely to banter and jokes about good shots, missed shots, and far too frequent scratches. True to his word, Phoenix was pretty terrible at the game. Luckily Miles was little better and their dual ineptness added a further layer of comedy to the game play.

The second game had just finished on a sour but entertaining note when, with four balls still on the table for Phoenix and only one for Miles, Miles accidentally sunk the eight ball, losing in grand style.

"Take that as a present from me," he said nonchalantly.

"Oh?" Phoenix laughed, "on what occasion?"

"The occasion of my not being able to stand feeling sorry for your poor game any longer."

"Gee, that's all it takes to make you lose so spectacularly? Then I ought to..."

"Hey, I know you." A gravelly voice cut came from behind him and Phoenix stopped mid-sentence. He and Miles both turned to see the source of the voice. A quick glance at Miles revealed that the dull face was as unfamiliar to him as it was to Phoenix.

"Excuse me?" Phoenix asked.

"I said, I know you. You're that hot-shot lawyer that was on TV." The man rested his crossed arms on the back of one of the tall chairs. He was maybe a decade older than Phoenix and Miles, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans and while otherwise seemingly put together, was filled to his red-rimmed eyes with booze. Even from the distance of a few feet, Phoenix could smell the alcohol radiating off him. "You're a real jack-ass, you know that?" The man continued. "A real self-righteous jack-ass."

"I... what?"

Nearly everyone likes to imagine that in the face of unfair accusations or a terrifying insults, the right response will come rolling off of their tongue and that they'll be able to stand up for themselves, succinctly and cleverly, particularly against a stranger.

The truth is this is rarely the case. Like nearly anyone else in his shoes would have been, Phoenix stood tongue-tied and frozen, unsure of what to do or say to the man in front of him.

"I think you should leave." Miles' voice came out even and cool.

The drunken man swiveled and focused on Miles.

"Oh shit, I think I know you, too!" He exclaimed. "You're that demon prosecutor guy." He glanced back and forth between the two of them and then started laughing humorlessly. "Shit, you guys really are buddies, aren't you." He was still half-laughing when he addressed Miles again. "Do you know what a jack-ass your friend is? What an utter prick?" He stopped laughing, a disgusted look passing over his face. "Of course not, you're probably just as big of a jerk-off as he is."

"What the hell is this about, anyway?" Phoenix couldn't help but blurt out. The whole encounter was confusing and disorienting.

"You fucks. You're what's wrong. Guys like you are why everything, why the system is so fucked up. You all just think you can just deal with things like you want, like you're some kinda freakin'..." the man struggled for a word, his face becoming pinker as he did so, "masterminds or something. "And this one." He turned back to Phoenix gesturing wildly at him. "All prancing around on television. How's it feel to be a famous jerk-wad?"

The words of one of the letters to the editor from two weeks ago drifted through Phoenix's head:

"I suspect our rising young attorney saw an opportunity for his own self-aggrandizement, too big to pass up, even at the expense of reasonable jurisprudence."

There had been a handful of other letters like it and Phoenix knew that there were those who shared the sentiments of the man standing in front of him. But that had always been at a safe intellectual distance. This was dangerous.

"You little attention seeking fuck." The man moved away from the chair and stepped closer to Phoenix. His voice had a new edge to it. "You know, it used to be a man could get a fair trial. Juries, all of that" He stepped closer again. Phoenix wanted to yell or push him away but the freezing instinct held him to his spot. "But little glory hounds like you had to go and fuck every thing up. You little cocksucker. You little prick!"

What happened next occurred in slow motion and no amount of remembering in the future could speed it up.

The man opened his mouth to hurl more obscenities but he was cut off, a balled fist striking him square in the center of his cheek. A few drops of spittle flew from his mouth and towards Phoenix at the impact. He stumbled back a few paces, falling into the table. Phoenix's beer was knocked off and landed on the floor in a pool of black liquid and broken glass. Then Phoenix was turning around, slowly realizing the origin of the punch was none other than certain pale colored prosecutor, an expression of pure anger twisting his features.

Then Phoenix wrapped his hand around Miles' wrist in his hand and was pulling him, half-walking, half-running to the front door, while the previously bored and uncaring girl watched them, her face stretched in disbelief. Still those steps took an age to make. And then they were outside and Phoenix didn't let go. The air was crisp and cool and broke across his face as he guided them both around the corner to the side of the building where they were half-hidden in the shadows.

Time moved again.

Neither man spoke and Phoenix stared at Miles dumbly. Eventually the fog cleared from his head and he noticed the other man clenching and unclenching his hand, holding it by the wrist.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"I think so." More clenching and unclenching. "I just... I've never really hit anyone before so..."

Phoenix reached up and took the obviously aching hand, examining it closely. The knuckles were red and already obviously a little swollen. "Jesus, Miles. Why on Earth did you do that?"

"Because. You're probably the single most honest, ethical, and selfless person I've ever met. He was an ignorant ass who deserved to be hit."

Neither Miles' eyes nor his voice quivered during the entire explanation.

"That was probably a mistake, I'll admit," Miles ventured sourly.

Phoenix desperately wanted say something; although to thank him or berate him, he wasn't sure. Either way the words stuck in his throat.

He raised the bruised hand to his lips and gently kissed it. Then looking into Miles' eyes, those sharp, endlessly meaningful grey eyes, he moved his face forward and allowed his lips to meet the other man's. Miles kissed him back and leaned forward, pressing Phoenix's back into the wall behind him.

At that moment, he didn't care that he was being kissed by a man in a somewhat public place, that it was a gratuitous public display of affection in any case. He kissed for all he was worth trying to say something with his lips that he couldn't put words to. Miles was grasping him desperately, some odd rage or hurt pouring out of him that caused him to cling to Phoenix. The whole world seemed to have slipped away save for the one man in his arms.

When their mouths parted, Miles let his forehead fall on Phoenix's shoulder and Phoenix wrapped his arms around him, half simply embracing him, half not being able to imagine letting go.

"Miles?" Phoenix barely breathed the word in the other man's ear.

"Hm."

"I don't want to go home alone tonight."

Miles drew back and examined Phoenix's face, although for what, Phoenix couldn't say. Phoenix willed his face to say everything he couldn't.

Finally, he slowly and wordlessly gave a small nod.

"Alright." Phoenix distanced himself slightly from Miles, running his hands down the other man's arms. "You stay here, I'll go get our stuff and pay for the pool table. Then I'll remind everyone that we're lawyers so they don't sue."

Miles made a wordless sound of agreement and Phoenix kissed him quickly once more before separating himself completely and returning to face the inside of the pool hall.

As it turned out, the man who had verbally accosted them was largely unharmed. He was apparently a regular troublemaker who continued to return, despite all their efforts to keep him away from more well-behaved customers.

The girl who'd rented the pool table was strikingly removed from her earlier unpleasant boredness and tripped over herself to apologize and describe her distaste for the drunken man. Her manager, however, while also apologetic, took Phoenix aside and explained in careful tones that while he was very sorry for what had happened the actions of his friend were also unacceptable and he would not be welcome back in his establishment.

What none of them knew was that Phoenix no longer cared about any of it. And while he nodded and acted reasonably through out the whole ordeal he could only think one thing:

_This is taking too long._

O O O

The car ride to Phoenix's apartment was quiet but not unpleasantly so. Occasionally the two men exchanged idle comments about things they passed but for the most part nothing much was said. Phoenix spent the majority of his time focused on the man driving, observing details like the quick movements of his eyes at an intersection, the way his hands dropped a few inches on the steering wheel at a red light, and the small pinch at his mouth that appeared from time to time as he bit the inside of his lip. All of these tiny motions seemed somehow blessed with a new gravity and Phoenix took them all in, filing every image away in a library of incredibly important minute in his mind.

Twice Miles looked as though he was about to say something. But then he had looked at Phoenix for just a moment and meeting the other man's eyes, shut his mouth, and whatever words had been on his lips had neatly crawled back inside.

Phoenix thought about pressing him to see what it was he wanted to say but decided that the moment was too tranquil to interrupt. If it was important, it would come out on its own time.

Tranquility, however, was interrupted by other matters. They were barely through the door of Phoenix's apartment before they were kissing wildly and not even to the living room before they were casting off coats, jackets, and then working on shirts in what seemed like a race to see who could strip the other first. They careened through to the space of the apartment, moving in a vague sort of direction towards the bedroom but constantly being thrown off course as they pushed against and grabbed one another.

Phoenix found himself leaning against the back of the couch, Miles just having finished taking off Phoenix's shirt and already having been divested of his own. The silvery haired man was covering his neck with kisses and he felt Miles' hardness press against the inside of his hip. Phoenix gave a light gasp, almost surprised at how erotic it felt. At the same moment, a legion of butterflies exploded in his stomach.

He was really going to do this.

He felt Miles take a step back from him and take his hands, holding them against his chest. It took Phoenix a moment to realize that he was trembling.

"We don't have to do this, you know. I'll understand if you want to stop."

The words came out soft and reasonable, the words of a man trying very hard to be good. Phoenix's body stilled, braced by Miles'.

"I'm sorry I'm nervous. It's my first time with..." he started to explain.

"Don't apologize." Miles face was close to Phoenix's and the space between them had been cut off again. "It's alright," he said softly.

Phoenix could feel him gripping on to his hands even as he held them. Slowly, Phoenix's hands drifted up Miles' chest and the grip on them eased slightly and then disappeared as Phoenix's hands rounded the curve of his shoulders. One of his hands drifted down Miles' back and the other tangled in that fine silvery hair as Phoenix brought him in for another kiss. Miles' arms wrapped around Phoenix's naked waist as they kissed and he pulled him tight against him.

"I'm okay." Phoenix said softly after they broke.

Miles must have taken this as some sort of cue because he separated from Phoenix again, this time taking one of his hands in his.

Then he led him into the bedroom.

Their lovemaking was surprisingly gentle. Phoenix couldn't tell if it was because Miles was a naturally calm and gentle lover or if he approached this particular lovemaking in that way for Phoenix's sake.

But the truth was he didn't care.

Like most first time lovers there were awkward moments, phrases like "I'm sorry" and "are you okay" occasionally drifting back and forth as unfortunately ticklish spots were discovered or they both moved in one particular direction at the same time and bumped chins or awkwardly misplaced kisses. The _faux pas_ were relatively minor though and moreover, even then Phoenix knew they weren't what he would later remember.

Instead, he would remember hot skin, damp with sweat, deep kisses and handfuls of hair clutched in delicious abandon. He would remember the way the room smelled, rich and musky and the way Miles' eyes fluttered half closed when he moaned. He would remember the passionate closeness and Miles clutching him in moments, as if he might suddenly slip away in the middle and into the night.

After it was over and the effects of passion had begun to fade, they lay naked and facing each other, tired but unwilling to sleep. Instead, they traced the edges of each other's bodies and exchanged lazy kisses, seeming for all the world nothing short of happy.

"I know what you said." Phoenix said, gently running a finger down Miles' nose.

"When?" Miles' pushed a stray piece of hair away from Phoenix's face.

"After the meeting with the Bar. You said I was beautiful to you."

"I thought you didn't speak German." He looked at Phoenix questioningly.

"I don't." Phoenix smiled. "But I do speak Andrews Sisters. That's the title of an old jazz song. Bie mir bist du shoen..." He mumbled the tune, his tired voice cracking. He was cut off by the placement of a finger on his lips.

"Clever. But do me a favor, don't sing."

"Jerk."

Phoenix felt a strong arm around his waist and he let himself be dragged in towards the other man, resting his head happily on his shoulder. He traced nonsense patterns on Miles' chest for a while, fuzzyheaded and entranced, fascinated by the rise and fall of his breathing.

"It wasn't so bad."

"Hm?" Phoenix roused himself out of his half-awake state and propped his head up on his arm so that he could look at him. Miles had a far off contemplative look on his face.

"Growing up with Von Karma. I thought you should know."

"Oh." Miles brought a hand up and laced his fingers with the hand Phoenix had on his chest.

"What was it like then?" Phoenix asked.

"He sent me to boarding school." Miles shrugged. "Most of the time I didn't see him much." He turned to meet Phoenix's eyes. "You know, that was the thing that finally made them agree to give him custody of me the first place. They thought I was so smart and someone was willing to put all that money towards my education."

"And did you like it?"

"It was hard at first but I got used to it." The far off look returned to his face, then Phoenix his lips form into a small, sly smile. "Besides when you're fifteen years old, gay, and more intelligent than practically everyone around you, an all boys boarding school in Europe is pretty much all you can ask for in life." The sly smile blossomed into a smirk and he glanced sideways at Phoenix, daring him to react. Phoenix gave a small laugh.

"Miles Edgeworth," Phoenix squeezed the hand holding his affectionately. "You are remarkable," he said laying down again to place his head on the other man's shoulder again, lightly nuzzling his neck.

"Hardly." Miles ran a hand through Phoenix's hair and then let it set there idly.

Phoenix let his thoughts drift for a time. He felt he ought to confess something in return but as subjects and memories skipped through his head in that wonderfully warm and half there way, nothing seemed to stand out in comparison the experiences of the man he was holding.

"Mia."

Now it was Phoenix's own voice that came from nowhere and Miles who was roused.

"Hm?" Miles ran his hand through Phoenix's hair in response.

"That day at the court house." Phoenix mumbled. "You asked me what I was thinking. I was thinking about Mia."

"She was a remarkable woman." Miles said softly.

"You knew her?"

"I ran into her in court."

Some part of Phoenix's memory woke up and reminded him that maybe he should have realized this. He wanted to badger Miles with a thousand questions but he realized that at that moment he was too tired for even one. He had no more words left in him.

He fell asleep holding the other man.

Later they drifted apart in the night, sleep putting bed space between them. Halfway through the night they both woke up again and exchanged tired kisses. They made love again, in this only sort of aware state. It was a dream-like love making, without words, neither awkward nor demanding. And although it didn't last long and they fell almost immediately from the heights of pleasure back into the depths of sleep, Phoenix couldn't remember ever having been more content as he was in those moments.


	18. Chapter 18

Miles Edgeworth slept.

_It begins as it always does. Dark. Empty. He cannot breathe. He is choking. He is going to die._

_As it always does, it begins, dark and empty. He is dying. He cannot breathe. He is going to choke._

_Dark and empty it begins, always dying, choking, he cannot not breathe._

_Always dark and empty. Cannot breathe. Choke. Die. _

_Always. _

_Watch out._

Miles Edgeworth dreamed.

_Something cold and hard is in his hand. Violent. He picked it up. No. It was put there. It makes him lift his hand, even though he doesn't want to. He tries to tell it no but then the cold thing is gone. Something warmer and soft and slick winds its way around his fingers now. _

_A snake. _

_But no. _

_His hand is the snake. _

_But no. _

_The snake is he. Huge and scales and fangs for a teeth. A snake. _

_He can see in the dark. He sees a man. His father._

_Father-man can see him, too. Father-man looks at him, eyes of fear. _

_You now, snake. Keep your fangs away from me._

_He goes to bite, he drips with poison. He is snake. Snakes bite. His mouth is open._

Miles Edgeworth stirred.

_But wait._

_If cowering father-man is a man, how is it that father-man is his father and he a snake? _

_There is a laugh. _

_He twists towards the source. He sees the man who made him snake. Who had the gun and gave him scales and put the poison in his mouth. He slides away from father-man and pushes his head into the hand of snake-maker. Snake-maker whispers in the snake tongue, angry and twisted he speaks. _

_Dummer verlorener Junge__...__ Beißen Sie sie alle__!_

_Father-man stares. He does not know snake tongue._

_Then snake-maker has him. Snake-maker wraps a hand around his neck. _

Miles Edgeworth continued to dream.

_Snake-maker made him snake to kill him with a squeeze. He knows that now. He bites the hand. He screams murderer with his powerful lungs. He pushes the man away as he falters. He draws himself to his full height. Bends down. Picks up his glasses, the satisfying thick black rims weighing on his face._

_He turns and finds a mirror. Leans over the bathroom sink and looks at himself. Pats himself all over, makes sure that he is fine._

Miles Edgeworth stirred again.

_No wait. This is not right. Too many years on the face. The glasses are all wrong._

_He can see movement behind him in the mirror. There are faces, indistinct and blurred. They move slowly towards him, the bodies that have those faces._

_He is shaking as he turns toward them. He grips the sink in front of the mirror unable to stand on his own. He sees the NL-9 boy and he recognizes them now, each and every one. _

_The snake ate them all. His son the snake._

_No._

_He removes the glasses; they make it so he cannot see. The glasses shatter in his hand._

_He remembers. _

_He is not the father. He is the snake._

_He killed them all._

O O O

Miles woke up with a gasp. It was a painfully sharp intake of breath, yet still quiet and inaudible. He grasped the sheets with white knuckles. It was the waking of a man trained by endless years of nightmares.

His eyes ran wildly over the room while his body remained stiff and motionless. Where was he? Somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere pleasant.

Phoenix's room.

Phoenix.

In an instant, he was aware of the warm body lying next to him.

Slowly coming to his senses, Miles carefully raised himself up so that leaning on one arm he could look down on the man next to him.

Phoenix was not the most attractive figure while asleep. He lay on his stomach, sprawled over the bed, one foot sticking out from underneath the covers. His mouth lay half open and slack while his hair was wild around his face, strands falling and sticking out at odd angles.

Miles couldn't take his eyes off him.

He'd never made love to someone he'd really cared about before, at least not so much. The emotional aftershocks of it were almost frightening to him, his feelings doubling and redoubling, washing over him and threatening to tear him apart, just from watching one awkwardly placed man sleep.

Tentatively, Miles reached out a hand to stroke his cheek.

A memory of the snake's fangs flashed through his head before he could make contact.

Miles recoiled, pulling his fingers back in response.

His stomach clenched involuntarily and he stared at his fingertips the images of his dream coming back to him in full force now. His father. The snake. Von Karma. The people in the mirror.

His eyes drifted back to Phoenix. He looked boyishly content while he slept.

Miles shut his eyes, wishing silently that nothing would ever erase that look while he slept. There had been enough in that man's life already, he thought, remembering the way the name of his former boss had floated off of Phoenix's lips in a something that had sounded like an incredibly private admission before he slept.

Sitting up completely, he climbed out of bed as gently as possible, doing his best not to wake the sleeping brunette. Finding his underwear and pants on the floor he pulled them on, then wandered out into the rest of the apartment to find his shirt.

The shirt was found on the floor next to the couch where Phoenix had unceremoniously dropped it the evening before. He picked it up and slid into the sleeves, not bothering to button it, just glad to be shielded from the pre-dawn chill. Then he sank into the couch in a miserable heap.

One of the oddities of his relationship with Phoenix was that he knew so much more about the man than he ever alluded to. Whether this was understood and implicit or was simply something Miles believed, he didn't know. But Miles had repeatedly read years of letters and confessions. And he had been the prosecutor in the Fawles trial. Between the two he had an idea of what had happened with Dahlia Hawthorne. And he knew about Mia. He'd not only run into her professionally but also prosecuted Maya for her murder, after all. These female disasters twisted themselves around Phoenix's life and neither one of them hardly breathed a word about them.

Not that Miles was a great candidate to talk about those sorts of things with, he reminded himself. He wasn't exactly the sort of person people gave emotional confessions to and for the most part, that was just fine.

He ran one of his hands over the couch cushion next to him and scratched vaguely at a particularly worn spot.

One of these days Phoenix would need someone to talk to and it couldn't be him. He was too much of a mess to even help himself.

Hell, he hadn't even told Phoenix he was leaving.

You're such a coward, Edgeworth, he told himself.

I just wanted this one thing, he responded. One happy night.

Do you really think you deserve that?

He heard a rustle from the adjacent room and Phoenix turned over in his sleep. In that moment, he had an overwhelming urge to forget all about his nightmare and his contemplations. He wanted to throw himself back in that warm bed, wrap his arms around Phoenix and bury his face in the man's shoulder.

He didn't move.

He could stay. Cancel the sabbatical. He didn't have to leave.

His entire body tensed at the thought and his nails scraped the couch as his hands clenched into fists. He winced as his damaged hand ached in response.

How selfish was he, really. If he stayed, the Bar and the DA's office would continue to pressure him and they'd have a reason to pressure Phoenix, too. If he stayed, there would still be a scared teenage girl all alone in Germany, even if she could admit to none of those things. And if he stayed what did Phoenix get out of it? He was would be stuck with a broken, corrupt, wreck of a human being, needily grabbing on to him for affection and attention to soothe ills that deserved no salve, only contempt.

Miles let his arms rest on his knees and hung his head.

Somewhere inside of him were the pieces of a good man but he had no idea where to find them all or how to put them back together in anything resembling sense.

Phoenix turned again in bed and Miles looked up in the direction of his bedroom.

One word, one look from that man in there and he would never be able to leave. Never be able to stay away.

Maybe it was illogical or strange or destructive but it had become the truth.

He stared at his hand, the knuckles properly bruised now and purple.

He was going mad here. He was breaking down, drinking alone, succumbing to nightmares, behaving violently.

He had to leave and he had to break things off completely.

He was shaking as he buttoned his shirt and found his socks and coat.

A brief search turned up a pen and a piece of paper and he scrawled out a note for Phoenix. He stared at the text and frowned, then added another line underneath the signature, hoping Phoenix would realize it was true.

Like a child's toy being guided by remote, he walked out of the apartment as though he had no control of himself and shut the door without a backward glance.

O O O

Every muscle he had seemed to be sore. It wasn't an unpleasant soreness nor an unwelcome one, though; just proof that some of those muscles hadn't been used in far too long. Phoenix stretched his arms and legs, feeling vaguely cat like as he twisted, breathing deeply trying to work out some of the aches in his back.

The sheets smelled like Miles Edgeworth and sex. It was a delightful smell to wake up to.

He snaked a hand out under the covers to find the man in question. He frowned. He opened his eyes. No one there.

Still murky in his half-awake head, Phoenix climbed out of bed and pulled on the pair of boxer shorts he'd cast off the night before. Then he stumbled into the living room, half expecting that Miles would be sitting on the couch ready to sarcastically berate him for sleeping in so late or for hogging the sheets, or something completely unrelated.

There was no Miles on the couch.

Phoenix frowned again and padded into the kitchen.

There was no Miles in the kitchen either, but there was a note prominently stuck to the refrigerator. Barely repressing a yawn, he grabbed the piece of paper and read its contents.

_Dear Phoenix,_

_Please accept my apologies at having left so early. I needed to get into work early this morning and I didn't have the heart to wake you._

_yours,_

_Miles_

_P.S. To me, you are beautiful._

Phoenix smiled as he read it. Then he read it again and smiled even more broadly.

He might have been upset or felt hurt but it was all very typical Miles Edgeworth, right down to the exceedingly careful handwriting. Besides, he couldn't expect most people to still be around at... He glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Holy hell, he had slept in.

But the line at the end, that proved it happened.

At least he said it in English this time.

Phoenix allowed himself to read the note a few more times before glancing at the clock again and admitting to himself that he needed to get to work soon or risk being in trouble; even if he was his own boss.

Phoenix knew he was grinning like an idiot when he got into the shower that morning. He knew he sounded like one when he allowed himself a single loud "Wahoo" over the loud rush of the shower jets. And he knew was still looking for all the world like a happy fool when he adjusted his tie in the mirror on his closet door.

But today of all days, he didn't really care.

He didn't care about a lot of things that morning. He didn't care about the sprawled out teenagers taking up two seats each on the bus or the woman's children who wouldn't be quiet for just one moment. He didn't care that the day seemed overcast and was still too chilly for his Southern Californian taste. He wasn't even bothered when he arrived at his office and he noticed that the slip for the rent had been slipped through the door.

For once, the world wasn't conspiring against him. For once, he got to be the happy man.

The only reason he was able to get any work done at all that morning was because at a half past ten o'clock he promised himself that he could go surprise Miles at work and take him to lunch. The next two hours flew by in a flurry of paperwork, a short meeting with a client, and an admittedly extremely unprofessional amount of daydreaming. At a half past twelve exactly, he gave up all pretense and attempts at lawyering, shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket, and all but ran to the bus stop.

On the bus for the second time that day, this time heading towards the prosecutors' offices, he noted to himself that he was a little too giddy and high-strung even his own comfort. He ordered himself to calm down and took several deep breaths, imagining the berating he'd get from Miles for acting like such an excitable puppy.

That didn't stop his feet, though, and the sound of the clipped pattering of the heels of his black dress shoes tapping on the floor of the bus followed him all the way to his stop.

Once inside the prosecutors' office, he smiled at all the various clerks and secretaries as he walked by them, filled to the brim with that particularly insufferable type of good will that comes only from A Man Having a Very Good Day. Few people smiled in return however and there was a grim sort of air to the place. He wondered briefly if he was committing some enormous_ faux pas_ by being there that day but he brushed the thought aside as illogical, considering that he'd shown up at Miles office without a moment's notice before.

There had probably been some sort of office upset or someone was going to be fired. Those were always bad days, he reasoned.

When he reached Miles' office, the secretary who usually sat at the desk in front was missing and there was an odd hush about the place. Detective Gumshoe stood in front of the open office door and he spoke quickly and nervously to three other officers, asking for reports and giving stuttered orders.

Phoenix's heart skipped a beat in a moment of paranoia.

But this was the prosecutors' office, after all. It was perfectly normal for the police to be around.

"Uh, sorry to bother you Detective Gumshoe but I was looking for Mr. Edgeworth..."

Gumshoe turned to face him and Phoenix was immediately stopped by the look on his face. He seemed grey and upset, his eyes dull as they glanced at Phoenix and then at the floor.

"He's not here, pal."

"What do you mean? Did he go to get lunch?" Phoenix was feeling genuinely worried at this point. The familiar pal was there but where was the usually upbeat investigator?

"No see... Man, I don't know how to tell you this..."

"Tell me what?" Phoenix knew his voice had an edge in it now but he didn't care. He was rapidly becoming genuinely frightened that something had happened to Miles and he wanted that fear gone immediately.

"You might want to sit down, pal." Gumshoe gestured towards the secretary's chair. "You were a friend of his and all..." Phoenix ignored the offer.

"Please, tell me now."

"We think..." Gumshoe licked his lips and looked at the floor again. "We think he's dead."

Phoenix said nothing. The world swam and stopped moving and swam again.

"How? What?" He leaned on the secretary's desk while he spoke.

"We haven't found a body yet but... well, there was a suicide note on his desk this morning. And he seems to have disappeared."

No. It wasn't possible. The facts didn't work. Just a few hours ago, he'd been in Phoenix's bed. Just a few hours ago, he'd been kissing Phoenix. Making jokes about German boarding school. He'd been warm... He'd been alive... He'd been...

"Let me see it."

"See what?"

"The note. Let me see it."

"I don't think I can do that, pal."

"Let me see it."

Gumshoe shook his head apologetically. "It's evidence. And until we finish the investigation..."

"Let me see it!" Phoenix howled, his voice bouncing off the office walls and pushing out every other sound.

"Calm down, pal. Just... calm down." Phoenix vaguely registered that Gumshoe seemed distressed now and that perhaps he shouldn't have just done that. Yet the part of his mind that might have cared was so far away and telling him this all wasn't real, this all couldn't possibly be happening...

"Here. Just be careful, okay."

There was a piece of paper being placed in his hands. Phoenix looked down at it.

The handwriting was Miles'.

It was the same deliberate script left on his refrigerator that morning.

_Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death._

The same handwriting that had said he was beautiful.

Oh God. No.

Gumshoe was guiding him into the secretary's chair as his legs had obviously stopped working. His mouth was moving so he might have been saying the mantra aloud or even, for all he knew, saying something else.

Oh God. No. Oh God. No.

Phoenix was never sure exactly how long he sat in the secretary's abandoned chair. Long enough to collect himself while Gumshoe explained to a bewildered police officer that he and Edgeworth had known each other. Long enough to drink the glass of water that was shoved into his hand and to gather himself enough to thank the person who brought it.

Long enough to know he wasn't going to wake up.

Once he'd gathered himself sufficiently, he apologized to Gumshoe and the other officers for his outburst and thanked them all for their help.

Gumshoe just shook his head again and mumbled "this day..." Then the detective placed a hand on his shoulder before he left, just a little too long, squeezing just a little too hard, and Phoenix had patted his hand dumbly.

"If you find anything..." Phoenix said.

"Don't worry. We'll let you know."

"Thanks."

Phoenix did not go back to the office that day. The idea of work was an unthinkable impossibility. Instead, he went home and changed out of his suit then walked numbly back to the living room with no idea of what to do after. At some point, he noticed the unopened copy of Aida sitting on the coffee table. He tore the plastic off the case and put the disc in the stereo.

For over two and a half hours he sat completely still, just letting the music play. He neither rose nor moved nor even thought until at the very last the princess died in her lover's arms, while above, Amneris, the one left behind, cried and cried.

It was beautiful, just like he'd said.

And when the last note sounded Phoenix realized there were tears falling down his cheeks.

He felt himself crying then. First soft weeping and then wracking sobs and finally painful inhales, his lungs clawing for air between the moans, violent and uncontrollable. When the worst of it was over, he lay out on the sofa and buried his face in the back of the cushions and even though he could breathe again, the tears continued to come. And then everything faded to nothing.

When he woke, the sun had set. Something had set in Phoenix, as well and he stood up, achingly silent inside himself and feeling purposeful in his actions.

First, he went into the bedroom and stripped the bed of all its sheets. He tossed the old ones on the closet floor, not even thinking of where they should go, and made the bed up again with fresh ones.

Then he walked into the living room and calmly took the copy of Aida out of the CD player and broke the disc into halves and then into quarters. He attempted the same with the case but when the thicker plastic proved difficult he settled for breaking it into as many pieces as would neatly break.

Finally, he retrieved the note from the kitchen. This he ripped into implausibly small pieces, each one smaller than confetti. It was a delicate time consuming task but he focused on nothing else until the last scrap of paper fell from his hands.

The coffee table was covered in a mess of paper and plastic. He found a wastebasket and carefully swept it all into the trash.

Feeling excruciatingly tired, if he felt anything at all, he changed for bed and buried himself whole under the covers.

The faintest scent of Miles Edgeworth was still left on the pillows. He didn't move, didn't even deeply breath. Soundless tears rolled off his cheeks until Phoenix fell asleep.

It was the last time he would cry for the death of Miles Edgeworth.

But it would be more than a year before he could even bear to hear someone speak his name.

O O O

_Deep in the silent inner room  
__Every fiber of my soft heart  
__Turns to a thousand strands of sorrow.  
__I loved the Spring.  
__But the Spring is gone.  
__As rain hastens the falling petals,  
__I lean on the balustrade,  
__Moving from one end to the other.  
__My emotions are still disordered.  
__Where is he?  
__Withered grass stretches to the horizon  
__And hides from sight  
__Any road by which he might return._

_- Li Ch'ing-chao  
__- trans. Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung_


End file.
